Shop-girl, in the midst of your frolic, Take this portrait without surprise. Portraits are merely pretexts. IV. _Manicurist_ Maudlin, hurt, morose, Tender, angry, remote, Whimsical, frigid, impatient-- Compel these adjectives to become Friendly to each other And let them stumble in unison Beneath the muscular trouble of life. The careful Boss who sends them on Holds one eye of bitterness And another of sentimentality, Closing each one on different occasions. The careful Boss may be your soul, Tired manicurist, amazing The fragrant barber-shop With words of valiant prose. Ferretti, the mildly dying barber, Loves his bald head with one finger And whispers, “She’s crazy, I fire her tomorrow. When customer ask her to eat with him She laugh and tell him she no care To pay too much for indigestion. She’s crazy. I fire her tomorrow.” Ferretti does not know That souls are not entirely unconcerned With straining for effects. V. _Housewife_ Seraphic and relaxed, you take Your novel with uncertain thumbs, As one who lingers over cake And dreads the thought of final crumbs. Frown at my precious sorcery And label me an envious elf. If human beings could agree Their boredom might revenge itself. O youthful housewife, weighing grains Of joy upon your empty smile, The total of my bolder gains Is but a more impressive guile. Your serious child wins the alert And limpid art of playing tag, While your emotions rest inert Like dried fruit in a paper bag. And yet I envy both of you And wish that I could also find The mildness of your fancied view, Where feelings dance and thoughts are kind. VI. _Woman_ They worship musical sound Protecting the breast of emotion. Their feelings pose as fortune-tellers And angle for coins from credulous thoughts. Shall we abandon this luxury Of mild mist and wild raptures? Your face refrains from saying yes But your closed eyes roundly Reward the luminous sentence. Greece and Asia have exchanged Problems upon your face, And the fine poise of your head Tries to catch their conversation. Few people care to use Thought as a musical instrument That brings its singing restraint to grief and joy, But we, with straight arms, will descend Daringly upon this situation. The full-blown confusion of life Will detest our intrusion. VII. _Old Actor_