Shut away from the wind and the rain. His eyelids are not merely lowered, And he is sleeping lightly as a cat. The old woman near the other end She has her supper hidden in her pocket; When none is looking, And pretends that she is reading the Outlook. The tall thin boy with the exciting mauve shirt Just to fill in the hour Until the burlesquers begin In the theatre on the next block. And in the shelves behind them all, The masters of the world, In reserve and silence, Await the coming of a sympathetic friend. Robert Gilbert Welsh QUILTS They gave me the quilt that Great-aunt Elizabeth made— A quilt of pink roses, and tiny careful stitches. It goes in my chest, for in October I marry. Pink roses, with stems of green on a background of white, Elizabeth filled in the long days with squares of pink, But here is a spot of red among the pink roses. I wonder what is stitched into the quilting. They gave me the quilt that Great-aunt Elizabeth made A quilt of pink roses with stems of green, for a bride. But I see all the time the splotch of blood in the roses. October is so far when war is near. Mary Willis Shuey CLAY CLAY HILLS It is easy to mould the yielding clay, And many shapes grow into beauty But forms of clay are lightly broken; They will lie shattered and forgotten in a dingy corner. But underneath the slipping clay Is rock. . . . I would rather work in stubborn rock All the years of my life, And make one strong thing; And set it in a high, clean place To recall the granite strength of my desire. DISCOVER ME AGAIN Discover me again— Look at me with new eyes, O my beloved! See, my aspect changes to the need of love, Even as the stable earth answers the call of the seasons. Do not regard me only as a winter-wife, A peddler of homely comforts. Indeed I am also your girl of spring- But these lie sick and languid; Discover me again! Jean Starr Untermeyer THOUGH ONE SHOULD STRIVE Love is the heart's last light to die! Though one should strive in stubborn pain To quench its beauty utterly, Yet were his labor vain. Yes, often, when the night is deep- Nancy Byrd Turner DRIFTWOOD BURNING You who behold me, You-the strangers, The dwellers in the low lands Here by the river Can you indeed Behold me, burning, Without wonder, without dreaming? The great flames Are taking me; They are consuming me; Even as you— Dwellers in the low lands Are to return unto dust In the end, I, the driftwood burning, Am going my way To the nothingness Of ashes in the wind. Yet I go Not slowly-not a slow fog To another But flamingly, A light, a warmth, a signal, |