English

Dirty little smudged face, and bare and battéred feet,
Playing in the sunshine, laughing at the heat,
Light of heart and care-free, down on Bleecker Street.

Wonder what you think, boy, wonder do you dream—
Summer in the country, and field, and wood, and stream,
Wind among the roses, and stars that glow and gleam?
Wonder if the message that makes the summer dear,
Song that thrills my heart-strings murmurs in your ear;
If it came a-wooing, I wonder would you hear?

If it came a-wooing,—Ah, God is kind and wise,

Far in a wide and silent forest's shade,
Upon a thick and fragrant bed of moss,
Whose thousand tiny, sweet and tangled flowers
Were stained with blood, that from its wounded breast
Did ebb away, a gentle faun did lie;
And from its quivering lips and panting side,
Its short and painful breath came gasping forth,
Blowing sweet incense soft upon the palm
Of a young lad, who, in his tender hand,
Bore up upon his lap its drooping head,—
The author and the pitier of its plight.
For 'twas that hand that but a space before

I shall meet you once by day,
Where you race the rush of foam
From the passing of the ships,
Braid of samphire at your waist,
Bronze of wind for naked pride,
Pressing with impatient feet
Shadowy circles up the sand:
I shall take them from your hand
Fruits of ocean salt and sweet,
Mermaid love and seaman woe,
Danger quest and tempest home;
Bind a wreath of sun and spray;
Crush the froth against my lips;
Hold your secret fierce embraced:—
Till the movements of the tide
Surge about my heart, and flow

Could I but see thy face again
A moment's space,
Its young, delightful mock-disdain,
Its wooing grace;
Could I but kiss thy wilful hair,
That restless hand,
Would you divine how dear you were
And understand?

Why was it when our hearts were near
They would not speak?
What barrier of love's shy fear
Could we not break?
When all my living was thy love
My lips were dumb,
Only when chance and place remove
The accents come.

In those sweet days my daily bread
Was seeing thee;

O Little Wind of Arcady! The tired old city's waiting you,
Waiting mid the fog, the cold, the slush drifts and the rain,
Haunted by the memory of sunny days and happy days,
Waiting for the voice of you singing once again.

Through the days, the dreary days of winter we were missing you,
Far away in sunny lands we knew there was your song;
That was thought to cheer us then and keep us patient waiting you.
Hurry little perfumed wind, the hours are grey and long.
Ah, whisper you are coming soon O Little Wind of Arcady,

“In the long border on the right
I shall plant larkspur first,” she thinks.
“Peonies and chrysanthemums
And then sweet-scented maiden pinks.

“The border on the left shall hold
Nothing but masses of white phlox.
Forget-me-nots shall edge this one,
The one across be edged with box.

“The sun-dial in the centre stands.
The morning-glories bright shall twine.
And in the strip at either end
Shall grow great clumps of columbine.

“There is no garden in the world
So beautiful as mine,” she dreams.

Hero care not though they prie,
I will loue thee till I die,
Ielousie is but a smart,
That tormentes a ielous hart:
Crowes are blacke that were white,
For betraying loues delight.

They that loue to finde a fault,
May repent what they haue sought,
What the fond eie hath not view'd,
Neuer wretched hart hath rew'd:
Vulcan then, prou'd a scorne,
When he saw he wore a horne.

Doth it then by might behoue,
To shut vp the gates of loue,
Women are not kept by force,
But by natures owne remorse.

A machine gun,
the low moon,
round and resounding

Once I heard a woman laughing—
Not like laughter of the women you have heard;
Syllables whose beauty blinds you, and reminds you
Of a brook in sunlight, or a sweet, leaf-hidden bird.
There is laughter that is human
Though shot through with notes of pain—
And then there is that laughter of an old, old, evil woman,
Raising red and burning mists within the brain.

In the mad, gin-reeking dance-hall,
Through the brainless oaths and shrieks, above the smoke
Of stale tobacco, burning to man's yearning

Sometimes he's selling hairpins at a counter!
Sometimes he's standing working at a loom!
Sometimes he's planting “taters” in a furrow!
Or handing round the dishes in his master's dining-room.
And other times you'll see him in an office!
With polished nails and nicely parted hair,
But it's not his job that matters,
His finery or his tatters,
For there's something in a slacker you can tell him anywhere.

It's something in the look he has about him!
It's something in the way he meets your eye!