The Waterbury Democrat., 1943-08-11
Good Evening.
GRAND CENTRAL

for song was in our hearts LoveneSs knet Tn homage to her eyes, and eyes looked across the small snowy table-cloth into my eyes where else for dinner After dinner we had liquors and coffee and sat around the table and talked And Ii hand crept into hand across the table hana nan a crept into hand. Then of sudden, we remembered Grand Central Station. had checked my suitcase on the onethirty train Waterbury that afternoon It had to be picked up. So we went to Grand Central Station to pick 1t up.
 MiracuIously got it without any wait or trouble and stroed out to the mezzanine overlooking the Concourse The Concourse was filled with hurrylng swrlng mass of peapIe And by the Saints and by the clock, it was twelve of Saturday night We marveled at the crowds, and we thought of the many nights when hearts had been younger, and we had scampered to catch the 1915 m. last train to Larchmont Manor, and to hOme The COncourse had been very empty then. 1t wasn't empty now. Mostly it was filled with Service men going-away. We stood there and we watched the crowds. Some of them were sailormen little bit under; and there were soldiers and sailors and marines quartets ripets duos and alone But generally the men in uniform had woman with then-wife, mother sister or sweetheart And these the that tore your heart You ddnt know your heart being torn until you saw the wives mothers sisters and sWeetheats coming back aone and giving way to the grief held back as long as HE had been there, so that he wouldn't see the tears. And suddenly we-my wife and felt very
  away. And we were going home. We went over to the Bltmore and had Scotch and soda and felt better but before went had been thinking of three verses once wrote which might be called Poems of Consola- tion," and which somehow seemed to fit in. Through the courtesy of Margaret Maloney, Poetry Editor of the Waterbury Democrat whose work at the head of this column you have often read and admired through the courtesy of George Dillon, another of the editors of the Tall Tower, who gets together those scintatng bits about your neighbors and who is the author of those zestfu paragraphs of epigrams which too often my own stuff crowds Out give you the following poems-if they can be called poems.
 The first-and you don't have to be very discern Marquis whose lovely tragic, "The Dark Hours failed disnaly on the stage and whose comedy, "The Old Soak, made him much gold, thought well enough of it to publish it in his column on the New York Sun when the column noted for the merit of it's con- tributors For the grief of youth is very real Youth is unaccuStomed to grief The old have walked long n the third stair from the top, and the shutter that always rattes in the wind. It is called:
 THE HEALER go own hills, kindly wind Battered sick in and body sou And the to her bosom will take massive and kind Banish my and make we'll and whole An, the loneliness, Shattered the dream and dead the love in my heart will minge my tears with wind The whimpering Answer will and the burden of hate depart In the dawn of the when the hills dfused with god Sparkling the sky, the sunshine luringly young, will go my pain of od Hearkenng the song in the well-oved tongue will from the and the hlls the kindly wind Proud in my faith, strong for play; And the hurt that powerful will vanish cringng blind; Laughing I'll scoff at the away The second written for the troubled of heart any where, even in Waterbury Town It appeared in The Forum originally It goes
 THERE'S AN END
 There's all things
 To joy to laughter,
 To lave and the tears
 That follow after
 The house shall topple
 From cellar to rafer
 Now that the idyI
 Is crumpIed broken.
 The cruel little
 So casually spoken,
 Our hearts dvested
 Of loves last token.
 This Is q glad
 Little pharse to
 There's end to all things,
 For
 win melt iB laughter
 Some tomorrow"
 And there isn't any room for the third