A SONG OF
THANKSGIVING

S.L. to G.J.H.,
Thanksgiving, 1912.

Let this day be called Thanksgiving;
God, in tenderness to men,
Hath revealed that you are living,
So that life grows brave again!

Lady, name that not irreverence,
Nor, of your humility,
Bid my halting praise's severance,
For you have disclosed to me
Happier days,
Holier ways ---
Mountains and the shouting sea.

## II

Snowflakes are falling;
The streets are gray.
Morning is liker
To dying day.
With brick and brownstone
Bulking above,
Through slushy puddles
Tramps vagabond Love.

Coldly, wearily,
Glowers my room.
The street-cars rattle
Their sordid gloom.
Thanksgiving showeth
A puckered face
Till -- comes a letter
From Grace, from <u>Grace</u>!

Snowflakes are trooping,
An exquisite gray
Prancing procession
Of elf and fay.
Brownstone is veiled now
With down as of doves.
In clouds are swirling
The winged loves.

Tenderly, happily,
Glows now my room.
The city's great laughter
And melodies boom.
The city's Thanksgiving
Is heaped in this place
That's shrining a letter
From Grace, from <u>Grace</u>!

Of your pity, Lady, read yet
another parchment of the jes-

-2-

7

## IV

Lotos on the river, dreaming
Over distant plaintive croons
Of the reapers in the twilight
Chanting lost Egyptian moons --
Roses, riotous, defiant,
Banners of the warrior breeze --
Dancing fields of sunny daisies,
By the quiet pasture trees --

All these flowers would I gather;
I would make a garden deep,
Where the lonely soul might wander
And discover love asleep.

If my roughened fingers clumsy
Be vouchsafed to plant them true,
Out of words and hopes and beauty
I would fashion gardens new.

So --- I laugh, and say: "Thanksgiving? --
I've a little work-to-do!"

So --- I pray I may be holpen
By the envisioned thought of you!

Who are strength, and hope, and beauty,
Who are, dearest -- who are you?

## V

Yea, I give a high thanks-giving
For this guiding sign to men:
God reveals that Grace is living
So that life may live again!

...

Sea Gate; a day of May.

DO NOT BE AFRAID OF LOVE

If the soldiers in the trench,
As the bugles clamored Charge,
And the old old colours brought hot ardor to the eye,
Stayed to argue and enlarge
On the doubts they could not quench ---
Muddied with a black dishonor would the Empire's colours lie.

If the many-minded priest,
Sacrosanct before the altar,
Stopped the flaming mass to worry over what he wished for lunch,
Would his heart-fire not have ceased,
And the hovering angels falter?
One would scarcely picture angels as a nice Tuxedo bunch.

Lover, read my misty riddles.
If your love be sacred fire,
And if happiness be rather more than mention in the *Times*,
Do not mince to cautious fiddles.
Spur to gallant gay desire,
And your mass, your charge, shall thunder to God's vast and
holy chimes.

SL to GLH.

May 25, '13.

A LONG BEACH LYRIC

I used to meditate the sea,
And sing how swift horizons fled.
But ho! they're nothing now toox to me --
I know how Daphne holds her head!

I deemed it was a duty deep
To analyze why Spring is fair.
But now I'm thinking how you peep
At Springtime from your shadowy hair.

A spectacled and earnest youth,
I asked the sea-winds what was true.
They grumbled mysteries till Truth
Herself came smiling through the blue
And silver ~~day~~ and brought me you!

SONG OF A FLORENTINE GALLANT

Tomorrow afternoon I'll go
With Vilma to a picture-show.
I'll squeak and squirm and wriggle my hips
And kiss my darling full on the lips
And say, "I love you so!"

Here by the Arno's tepid flow,
Here in the City of the Flowers,
We care not what the Tourists know.
Two treasures from the past are ours:
Our making love and our fighting powers.

The station piazza
Has a terrazza
Where you can whirl with your girl till she's pazza.

The Tourists stare at wormy towers,
They sigh at Fra Angelico
And rave about his art, like polo
Or like a red-hot trumpet solo.

Our fondness for Verona vino
Or for a high-powered topolino
They waste upon some daub by Dino.
We never sainted it.
Not that it's tainted -- it
Happens my granddaddy's granddaddy painted it.

But once in a while there's a Tourist ragazza
Worth following close as a spoon to a tazza.
A talkative, crop-haired New-Yorkish ragazza.
Thin icy bones in bed,
Loving just with her head,
Scared, but so spirited,
Breezily bred,
Rare to an expert upon the ragazza --
Darling but dead.

They trudge in herds of learned gloom
To view a titivated tomb,
We fly to grace a dancing-room.
We stay -- they go.
Ciao!

Florence. March 1950.

SOLDIER RETIRED TO A FLORENCE VILLA

Here is a warrior true and tried
Booted and spurred and ready to ride,
Ready to charge upon Leland's Bar
And accept a drink and the deepest chair,
And tell of the Abyssinian War,
The war he'd have won if he had been there,

And what he murmured to General French,
Carelessly sauntering down a trench
While the hand-grenades and the knives and bullets
Flashed about like stampeded pullets.

He'd drink of hellfire with Pol Orsini,
But he'll compromise on a Dry Martini.
He's rough and ready, and waits no sign
Before inviting himself to dine.
Then back to his secret villa life,
To change the diapers on his wife.

Florence. March 1950

MODESTY

"Tis midnight oil, not blood, my heroes shed.
Alas, I am no Shakespeare," Milton said.
"I court the mob with farthing villains still.
Alas, I am no Homer," sighed poor Will.

"Slow-footed in wanderings weary, and void of Olympian juices,"
Groans Homer, "my Muse, blind and crippled, can never be godlike,
as Zeus is."

And Zeus, in the terror of mist, on his mountain-top drefully thunders,
"Alas I can never, like Milton, explain theological wonders."

Grindelwald - Zurich. July 1950

TEMPERATE DRINKING SONG

Langurious lyrics on wine and on rosebuds
Rarely take note of the cramps and acidity
(More than a hint of the Reaper who mows buds)
Afflicting the bards who drink wine with avidity
And flirt as they quaff
Carafe on carafe
Until they discover the maidens all laugh
At their growing condition of rubicund, nosebuds,
Which leads to more blushing, and painful timidity
Followed by flight from embraces by those buds
And trying a diet of strictest morality --
The only approach to a sound sensuality.

Adhere to this therapy: quit the Chianti,
Heed not the temptress in silkiest scanty,
Heed but the creed of your minister's aunty,
And be safe in a cafe with a tribe of Ashanti.

Florence -- April 1950

DOUBTFUL TOURIST

Nix on the boasting, but let me say that
My dad owns the dairy in Chippewa Flat.
This Rome is a good-enough town, in its way,
Those python-skin slippers I bought are okay,
But maybe these Roman guys wouldn't be sore
If they got a good look at our Pep Superstore!

Our town's not so big -- yet -- but fixed up as slick,
And Ladies! Fifth Avenue Shop is as chic,
And talk of the grub at a Roman hotel --
Pete's Hot Dogs and Beans are exactly as swell,
And our Motocourt Lodge never misses a trick
In innerspring mattresses, shower and tub.
Our Louella Playhouse, the Elks' lovely club,
Are so far ahead that they make you just sick
Of these tumble-down walls by a dirty ole crick!

I don't want to boast, but they needn't to guess
That a Chippewa Flatter's a cinch to impress!

And maybe I know this is none of it so!
Maybe I'm homesick. It's home I would go,
Where I love every face, every tree, every cat,
And Charley, my boy-friend in Chippewa Flat!

Florence -- April 1950