Afternoon has fallen on this street, Like an imbecilic organ-grinder Grinning over his discords. Dead men and women spin Their miracles of motion Upon the grayness of this street. In this old Jew’s shop A woman bargains over calico. With a ghostly naïveté She reprimands the price of her shroud. In this pawn-shop stands a man Parting with his clarinet. He walks away, with dangling arms, Like a swindled Gabriel. In a lunchroom sits a woman Whose face is a tired sin Seeking comfort in religion. A young girl near her is an angel Puzzled by streaks of mud upon her face And asking questions of her vanity. Outside, dead men and women Are whipped on by the explosive magic Of an old, resistless masquerade. Street-cars, wagons, and motor-trucks Rattle their parodies on life, And over all the afternoon Twists, like an imbecilic organ-grinder Snickering over his discords. III. Night has thrown his ecstasy Of staring, counterfeit eyes Over the torrent of this street. Men with faces quicker And more furtive than time Stand motionless in doorways. Women stride down this street. Many fingers have pulled their faces To a haggard lack of expression. They join the motionless men In the doorways and disappear. And over them the tame and ghastly coffins Display their shamefaced grays and reds Against the tangled vividness of night. LANDSCAPE The countless vagaries of maple leaves, Elastic humbleness of flowers and weeds, The hill, a placid stoic to all creeds, They use an obvious language that deceives The subtle theories of human ears. Their tongue is motion and they scorn the rhyme And meter made by men to soothe their fears. Beneath the warm strength of each August hour They spurn cohesion and the plans of thought, With quick simplicity that seems confused Because it signals mystic whims that tower Above the thoughts and loves that men have caught: Beyond the futile words that men have used. COUNTRY GIRL Your face is stencilled with a pensiveness. Your face contains a minor lyric trapped By dainty ignorance, and tamely capped By hair as trimly lifeless as your dress. You suffer from the drooling praise of old And youthful men, who strive to win a blind And soothing admiration from your mind, And do not try to make your thoughts unfold. This comedy would fade into a host If it were not rewarded by the dead But unrelenting poet on your face. Your eyes are heavy with his reckless ghost: The trouble of his hands is on your head As you peer out into a clouded space. NONDESCRIPT TYPIST