Main Street, Other Poems | Page 4

would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid For the tiny house with the trampled yard,?the yard where the snowman stands.
They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears?To toil and suffer their life-time through,?because of the sin they sinned,?The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years, To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce?their flesh with the icy wind.
But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread, Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred: And through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red, For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard.
A Blue Valentine
(For Aline)
Monsignore,
Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,?Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,?Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,?I respectfully salute you,?I genuflect?And I kiss your episcopal ring.
It is not, Monsignore,?The fragrant memory of your holy life,?Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,?Which causes me now to address you.?But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,?It seems appropriate to me to state?According to a venerable and agreeable custom,?That I love a beautiful lady.?Her eyes, Monsignore,?Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections?On everything that she looks at,?Such as a wall?Or the moon?Or my heart.?It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,?Yet not quite like it,?For the blueness is not transparent,?Only translucent.?Her soul's light shines through,?But her soul cannot be seen.?It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise And noble.?She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,?Made in the manner of the Japanese.?It is very blue --?I think that her eyes have made it more blue,?Sweetly staining it?As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.?Loving her, Monsignore,?I love all her attributes;?But I believe?That even if I did not love her?I would love the blueness of her eyes,?And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.
Monsignore,?I have never before troubled you with a request.?The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas?are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,?Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,?And your brother bishop, my patron,?The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.?But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,?Do me this favour:?When you this morning make your way?To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses?because of her who sits upon it,?When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,?I beg you, say to her:?"Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth, Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you For wearing a blue gown."
Houses
(For Aline)
When you shall die and to the sky?Serenely, delicately go,?Saint Peter, when he sees you there,?Will clash his keys and say:?"Now talk to her, Sir Christopher!?And hurry, Michelangelo!?She wants to play at building,?And you've got to help her play!"
Every architect will help erect?A palace on a lawn of cloud,?With rainbow beams and a sunset roof,?And a level star-tiled floor;?And at your will you may use the skill?Of this gay angelic crowd,?When a house is made you will throw it down,?And they'll build you twenty more.
For Christopher Wren and these other men?Who used to build on earth?Will love to go to work again?If they may work for you.?"This porch," you'll say, "should go this way!"?And they'll work for all they're worth,?And they'll come to your palace every morning,?And ask you what to do.
And when night comes down on Heaven-town?(If there should be night up there)?You will choose the house you like the best?Of all that you can see:?And its walls will glow as you drowsily go?To the bed up the golden stair,?And I hope you'll be gentle enough to keep?A room in your house for me.
In Memory
I
Serene and beautiful and very wise,?Most erudite in curious Grecian lore,?You lay and read your learned books, and bore?A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs.?The song within your heart could never rise?Until love bade it spread its wings and soar.?Nor could you look on Beauty's face before?A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes.
Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder;?Love is a poignant and accustomed pain.?It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder;?It is a linnet's fluting after rain.?Love's voice is through your song; above and under?And in each note to echo and remain.
II
Because Mankind is glad and brave and young,?Full of gay flames that white and scarlet glow,?All joys and passions that Mankind may know?By you were nobly felt and nobly sung.?Because Mankind's heart every day is wrung?By Fate's wild hands that twist and tear it so,?Therefore you echoed Man's undying woe,?A harp Aeolian on Life's branches hung.
So did the ghosts of toiling children hover?About the piteous portals of your mind;?Your eyes, that looked on glory, could discover?The angry scar to which the world was