Presently persons will come out And shake legs. I do not want legs shaken. I want immortal souls shaken unreasonably. I want to see dawn spilled across the blackness Like a scrambled egg on the skillet; I want miracles, wonders, Tidings out of deeps I do not know ... But I have a horrible suspicion That neither you Nor your esteemed consort Nor I myself Can ever provide these simple things For which I am so patiently waiting. II. Base people! How I dislike you! Some of you have come from Park Avenue, Almost as you might go slumming. Some of you have come from the suburbs, Almost as you might go to heaven. From Greenwich Village there are a few of you; God alone knows why you have come. And perhaps there are in your midst A few incredible two-headed beings From that mythical land of horrors, Hoboken. Also the traveling salesmen, mainly Hebraic; And the wide-eyed yokels from the little villages of Illinois; And the two young men-about-town Conscious of their new evening-clothes; And the three ladies Who are trying to pick up someone for the night. And the music,—Oh Christ and Mohammed and Buddha, the music! ... Base people! How I dislike you! Do you know why I have come here? It will not interest you; nevertheless, I tell you— I have come here to be alone. III. One night, long ago, As at this table I sat reflective, A girl came And took my hand And sat beside me. She was no creature of the roaring town, But a woman of breeding With young and delicate eyes. I had seen her sitting A long way off At a large supper-table with many others— Groomed men and richly dressed women And an elephantine dowager. Now, between the dances, She had strayed away; And with a wave of her hand to them, Signifying she had found a friend, She sat down and looked at me. We did not talk. For I did not understand her coming, And she seemed to desire no speech. Then suddenly She laid her hands upon mine across the table And whispered—“I am so lonely!” “I am so lonely!” And after we had looked at each other a long time in silence,— Silence of doubt, silence of comprehension,— She turned, and left me. And now tonight I forget this sea of faces ... IV.