Songs and Satires Part 3

Blue smoke from out a roasting room is pouring.

A rooster crows, geese cackle, men are bawling.

Whips crack, trucks creak, it is the place of storing, And drawing out and loading up and hauling Fruit, vegetables and fowls and steaks and hams, Oysters and lobsters, fish and crabs and clams.

And near at hand are restaurants and bars, Hotels with rooms at fifty cents a day, Beer tunnels, pool rooms, places where cigars And cigarettes their window signs display; Mixed in with letterings of printed tags, Twine, boxes, cartels, sacks and leather bags, Wigs, telescopes, eyegla.s.ses, ladies' tresses, Or those who manicure or fas.h.i.+on dresses, Or sell us putters, tennis b.a.l.l.s or bra.s.sies, Make shoes, pull teeth, or fit the eye with gla.s.ses.

And now the rows of windows showing laces, Silks, draperies and furs and costly vases, Watches and mirrors, silver cups and mugs, Emeralds, diamonds, Indian, Persian rugs, Hats, velvets, silver buckles, ostrich-plumes, Drugs, violet water, powder and perfumes.

Here is a monstrous winking eye--beneath A showcase by an entrance full of teeth.

Here rubber coats, umbrellas, mackintoshes, Hoods, rubber boots and arctics and galoshes.

Here is half a block of overcoats, In this bleak time of snow and slender throats.

Then windows of fine linen, snakewood canes, Scarfs, opera hats, in use where fas.h.i.+on reigns.

As when the hive swarms, so the crowded street Roars to the shuffling of innumerable feet.

Skysc.r.a.pers soar above them; they go by As bees crawl, little scales upon the skin Of a great dragon winding out and in.

Above them hangs a tangled tree of signs, Suspended or uplifted like daedalian Hieroglyphics when the saturnalian Night commences, and their racing lines Run fire of blue and yellow in a puzzle, Bewildering to the eyes of those who guzzle, And gourmandize and stroll and seek the bubble Of happiness to put away their trouble.

Around the loop the elevated crawls, And giant shadows sink against the walls Where ten to twenty stories strive to hold The pale refraction of the sunset's gold.

Slop underfoot, we pa.s.s beneath the loop.

The crowd is uglier, poorer; there are smells As from the depths of unsuspected h.e.l.ls, And from a groggery where beer and soup Are sold for five cents to the thieves and b.u.ms.

Here now are huge cartoons in red and blue Of obese women and of skeleton men, Egyptian dancers, twined with monstrous snakes, Before the door a turbaned lithe Hindoo, A bagpipe shrilling, underneath a den Of opium, whence a man with hand that shakes, Rolling a cigarette, so palely comes.

The clang of car bells and the beat of drums.

Draft horses clamping with their steel-shod hoofs.

The buildings have grown small and black and worn; The sky is more beholden; o'er the roofs A flock of pigeons soars; with dresses torn And yellow faces, labor women pa.s.s Some Chinese gabbling; and there, buying fruit, Stands a fair girl who is a late recruit To those poor women slain each year by l.u.s.t.

'Tis evening now and trade will soon begin.

The family entrance beckons for a gla.s.s Of hopeful mockery, the piano's din Into the street with sounds of rasping wires Filters, and near a p.a.w.ner's window shows Pistols, accordions; and, luring buyers, A Jew stands mumbling to the pa.s.ser-by Of jewelry and watches and old clothes.

A limousine gleams quickly--with a cry A legless man fastened upon a board With casters 'neath it by a sudden shove Darts out of danger. And upon the corner A la.s.sie tells a man that G.o.d is love, Holding a tambourine with its copper h.o.a.rd To be augmented by the drunken scorner.

A woman with no eyeb.a.l.l.s in her sockets Plays "Rock of Ages" on a wheezy organ.

A newsboy with cold hands thrust in his pockets Cries, "All about the will of Pierpont Morgan!"

The roofline of the street now sinks and dwindles.

The windows are begrimed with dust and beer.

A child half clothed, with legs as thin as spindles, Carries a basket with some bits of coal.

Between lace curtains eyes of yellow leer, The cheeks splotched with white places like the skin Inside an eggsh.e.l.l--dest.i.tute of soul.

One sees a bra.s.s lamp oozing kerosene Upon a stand whereon her elbows lean; Lighted, it soon will welcome negroes in.

The railroad tracks are near. We almost choke From filth whirled from the street and stinging vapors.

Great engines vomit gas and heavy smoke Upon a north wind driving tattered papers, Dry dung and dust and refuse down the street.

A circ.u.mambient roar as of a wheel Whirring far off--a monster's heart whose beat Is full of murmurs, comes as we retreat Towards Twenty-second. And a man with jaw Set like a tiger's, with a dirty beard, Skulks toward the loop, with heavy wrists red-raw Glowing above his pockets where his hands Pushed tensely round his hips the coat tails draw, And show what seems a slender piece of metal In his hip pocket. On these barren strands He waits for midnight for old scores to settle Against his ancient foe society, Who keeps the soup house and who builds the jails.

Switchmen and firemen with their dinner pails Go by him homeward, and he wonders if These fellows know a hundred thousand workers Walk up and down the city's highways, stiff From cold and hunger, doomed to poverty, As wretched as the thieves and crooks and s.h.i.+rkers.

He scurries to the lake front, loiters past The windows of wax lights with scarlet shades, Where smiling diners back of ambuscades Of silk and velvet hear not winter's blast Blowing across the lake. He has a thought Of Michigan, where once at picking berries He spent a summer--then his eye is caught At Randolph street by written light which tarries, Then like a film runs into sentences.

He sees it all as from a black abyss.

Taxis with skid chains rattle, limousines Draw up to awnings; for a s.p.a.ce he catches A scent of musk or violets, sees the patches On powdered cheeks of furred and jeweled queens.

The color round his cruel mouth grows whiter, He thrusts his coa.r.s.e hands in his pockets tighter: He is a thief, he knows he is a thief, He is a thief found out, and, as he knows, The whole loop is a kingdom held in fief By men who work with laws instead of blows From sling shots, so he curses under breath The money and the invisible hand that owns From year to year, in spite of change and death, The wires for the lights and telephones, The railways on the streets, and overhead The railways, and beneath the winding tunnel Which crooks stole from the city for a runnel To drain her nickels; and the pipes of lead Which carry gas, wrapped round us like a snake, And round the courts, whose grip no court can break.

He curses bitterly all those who rise, And rule by just the spirit which he plies Coa.r.s.ely against the world's great store of wealth; Bankers and usurers and cliques whose stealth Works witchcraft through the market and the press, And hires editors, or owns the stock Controlling papers, playing with finesse The city's thinking, that they may unlock Treasures and powers like burglars in the dark.

And thinking thus and cursing, through a flurry Of sudden snow he hastens on to Clark.

In a cheap room there is an eye to mark His coming and be glad. His footsteps hurry.

She will have money, earned this afternoon Through men who took her from a near saloon Wherein she sits at table to dragoon Roughnecks or simpletons upon a lark.

Within a little hall a fierce-eyed youth Rants of the burdens on the people's backs-- He would cure all things with the single tax.

A clergyman demands more gospel truth, Speaking to Christians at a weekly dinner.

A parlor Marxian, for a beginner Would take the railways. And amid applause Where lawyers dine, a judge says all will be Well if we hand down to posterity Respect for courts and judges and the laws.

An anarchist would fight. Upon the whole, Another thinks, to cultivate one's soul Is most important--let the pa.s.sing show Go where it wills, and where it wills to go.

Outside the stars look down. Stars are content To be so quiet and indifferent.

WHEN UNDER THE ICY EAVES

When under the icy eaves The swallow heralds the sun, And the dove for its lost mate grieves And the young lambs play and run; When the sea is a plane of gla.s.s, And the bl.u.s.tering winds are still, And the strength of the thin snows pa.s.s In mists o'er the tawny hill-- The spirit of life awakes In the fresh flags by the lakes.

When the sick man seeks the air, And the graves of the dead grow green, Where the children play unaware Of the faces no longer seen; When all we have felt or can feel, And all we are or have been, And all the heart can hide or reveal, Knocks gently, and enters in:-- The spirit of life awakes, In the fresh flags by the lakes.

IN THE CAR

We paused to say good-by, As we thought for a little while, Alone in the car, in the corner Around the turn of the aisle.

A quiver came in your voice, Your eyes were sorrowful too; 'Twas over--I strode to the doorway, Then turned to wave an adieu.

But you had not come from the corner, And though I had gone so far, I retraced, and faced you coming Into the aisle of the car.

You stopped as one who was caught In an evil mood by surprise.-- I want to forget, I am trying To forget the look in your eyes.

Your face was blank and cold, Like Lot's wife turned to salt.

I suddenly trapped and discovered Your soul in a hidden fault.

Your eyes were tearless and wide, And your wide eyes looked on me Like a Maenad musing murder, Or the mask of Melpomene.

And there in a flash of lightning I learned what I never could prove: That your heart contained no sorrow, And your heart contained no love.

And my heart is light and heavy, And this is the reason why: I am glad we parted forever, And sad for the last good-by.

SIMON SURNAMED PETER

Time that has lifted you over them all-- O'er John and o'er Paul; Writ you in capitals, made you the chief Word on the leaf-- How did you, Peter, when ne'er on His breast You leaned and were blest-- And none except Judas and you broke the faith To the day of His death,-- You, Peter, the fisherman, worthy of blame, Arise to this fame?

'Twas you in the garden who fell into sleep And the watch failed to keep, When Jesus was praying and pressed with the weight Of the oncoming fate.

'Twas you in the court of the palace who warmed Your hands as you stormed At the damsel, denying Him thrice, when she cried: "He walked at his side!"

You, Peter, a wave, a star among clouds, a reed in the wind, A guide of the blind, Both smiter and flyer, but human alway, I protest, Beyond all the rest.

When at night by the boat on the sea He appeared Did you wait till he neared?

You leaped in the water, not dreading the worst In your joy to be first To greet Him and tell Him of all that had pa.s.sed Since you saw Him the last.

You had slept while He watched, but fierce were you, fierce and awake When they sought Him to take, And cursing, no doubt, as you smote off, as one of the least, The ear of the priest.

Then Andrew and all of them fled, but you followed Him, hoping for strength To save him at length Till you lied to the damsel, oh penitent Peter, and crept, Into hiding and wept.