Beware, lad.

There's a lane of cherry trees
On the turn from his grave.
Don't look at her,

Or you'll be plucking blossoms

In blossom time, blossoms being pink,

Or cherries in cherry time, cherries being red.

And seeing they're a pretty variation from the white,
Her love will carry them

To what was her love for him.

[The girl has not seen the second boy. She leaves the wood. A silence.]

Only when the willow nods

Does the water nod;

Only when the wind nods
Does the willow nod;
Only when a cloud nods
Does the wind nod:
And, of course, nod
Rhymes with God
[Slow curtain.]

1

Alfred Kreymborg

THE SPLENDID COMMONPLACE

IN THIS HOTEL

The headwaiter says:
"Nice day to-day!"
He smiles sentimentally.
The headwaiter says:

"It will rain to-day!"

He frowns gracefully.

Those are the greetings, every morning,

To every old lady,

And every old gent,

And every old rogue,

And every young couple—

To every guest.

And I, who do not sleep, who wait and watch for the dawn,

One day I would come down to the world.

I would have a trumpet as powerful as the wind,

And I would trumpet out to the world

The splendid commonplace:

"Nice day to-day!"

And another day I would cry out in despair,

"It will rain to-day!"

For every old lady,

And every old gent,

And every old rogue,

And every young couple

Are they not guests in this hotel,

Where the ceiling is the sky
And the floor is the earth,

And the rooms are the houses?

But I, I-this wretched, tired thing

May I ask for a job

As headwaiter

Of this hotel?

HIS MAJESTY THE LETTER-CARRIER

Half past seven in the morning

And the sun winks at me,

Half hidden by the last house of the street.

His long fingers

Scare away these trotting little men

Who rush westward from the east to their jobs.

Laughing, the sun pursues them

Ah, there he is!

(What do you think I got up so early for?)

You never see him run

He is so proud

Because he's got my happiness in that dirty bag:

He's got a kiss from my sweetheart,

Some money for me to buy some food,

And a white, nice collar.

That's why he's so conceited,

That's why he wants to show

That he doesn't know the sun is behind him,

That the laughing sun is behind him

Pushing him along to make him bring me my happiness:

A kiss from my sweetheart,

Some money to buy some food and a clean collar,

And a letter from an editor that says:

"You're a great poet, young man!"

Damn it! I guess he heard me raving about him:

He passed by my door and didn't even turn around.
What shall I do, what shall I do?

Oh, never mind-tomorrow, tomorrow!

DRÔLATIQUE-SÉRIEUX

Through the lowered awning's chink

The sun enters my room with the glad fury

Of a victorious dagger wielded by an adventurous child.

I smoke:

On the blade of the golden dagger

The smoke of my cigarette

Writhes, struggles, seems to wail and protest,

Then escapes, runs away, hurriedly, out of the window.

It meets the sun

This blue, dream-fed smoke meets the sun.

The sun has no dream

Perhaps it is Truth itself,

So beautiful!

Then it's wrong, very wrong,

To puff my dream in the radiant face of Truth?

Is it blasphemous, cowardly?

Is it to insult the Sun?

WHEN IT HAS PASSED

Love-I thought it was a long ride in a boat
Over a quiet lake: around

The weeping willows let fall their hair

Into the water;

And amid those hairs, the rays

Which the sun had forgotten to take with him going away

Were of indigo-rose-purple-blue.

But now that it has passed I know it was a stream

That swept by roaring, destroying all, all.

In my soul, all that is left is a shrub

That sways and waves at the wind like the hair of a witch, That whistles and curses the wind like the ghastly arm of a

witch:

The remembrance.

TO THE POETS

Essences of the peoples' beautiful selves,
Violins whose strings quiver

With long, soft, delicate harmonies

Even when touched by the world's rough fingers,

Even when touched by Grief's cold fingers