UC-NRLF 
 
 273 DIM 
 
GIFT OF 
 
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 (7vM\<t/vtl 
 
CANYON GARDEN 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET ERWIN 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 A. M. ROBERTSON 
 
 MDCCCCXXII 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY A. M. ROBERTSON 
 
 
 SUNSET PRESS. SAN FRANCISCO 
 
FOR FOUR BOYS WHO WERE THE 
 INSPIRATION AND SOMETIMES THE 
 EXPRESSION OF THESE SKETCHES 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGES 
 
 CANYON GARDEN i to 15 
 
 CANYON VOICES . 17 to 27 
 
 SANTA FE LIMITED AND 
 
 DESERT SKETCHES 29 to 47 
 
 MOODS 49 to 66 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 67 to 103 
 
CANYON GARDEN 
 
CANYON GARDEN 
 
Come with me to my canyon. Let us climb 
 down, down. Parting the laurel and the wild 
 bank rose, riotous in its beauty. Down to this 
 still spot. This bed of a mountain stream in 
 winter. This place of rejoicing birds in 
 summer. And in spring, this place for the 
 dancing of our souls. 
 
II 
 
 Swinging willows and young green fern. 
 Reaching tendrils of passion vine. The sky 
 of a depth and strength to hold the 
 birth-compelling sun to the warm and 
 welcoming earth. I feel the rising blood of the 
 spring within me. And a wild canary is voice 
 for me. For my ecstasy, this ecstasy of the 
 spring. 
 
Ill 
 
 Today I must forget, forget. The throbbing 
 in my throat will cease. I turn my face unto 
 the sun. And draw my hair across my eyes. 
 And sleep. I breathe my strength from the 
 wind. My peace from the canyon night. 
 Tomorrow I shall have confidence. 
 
IV 
 
 Give yourself to the night. Let the wind take 
 you over the hills and bay. Drift back with 
 the fog along the canyon bank. And above, 
 with the stars, look on time and on the many 
 worlds. Give yourself to the night. 
 
Fresh from the springs of eternal things comes 
 the canyon rain. Slowly at first, with 
 rhythmic fall, touching the bay leaves, 
 caressing, blessing. Then, mate of the 
 fragrant, wild night wind, conquering, rioting, 
 deluging. Bending the oaks and the laurel 
 low. Lashing the vines in the brook s mad 
 flow. An exultant surge. 
 
VI 
 
 The moon is blowing eerily. The wind is wild 
 to-night. Go to the top of the quarry hill, 
 if you can stand against it. The clouds are 
 racing from its touch. It is full of stinging 
 dust. The wind is in torment to-night. 
 It has lost itself in the canyon. And what is a 
 human soul to the soul of the wind? The 
 wind that carries the worlds. 
 
 6 
 
VII 
 
 She is at home. The smoke is rising from her 
 chimney, straight and thin and blue. So full 
 of grace it is, so mystic blue, it might be vapor 
 of her dreams. She is at home! Heart, stay 
 away. It will be wiser so. Your dreams are 
 straining things and clumsy-limned and flame. 
 Though she may long, let her not know. Can 
 you be silent, heart? 
 
VIII 
 
 Do you know nasturtiums and geraniums in an 
 old California garden? Great matted masses, 
 pink and scarlet, flame and purple, gold and 
 orange? The glory of these gracious weeds, 
 nasturtiums and geraniums. Their faith in 
 beauty. Triumphant riotous grasses, reaching, 
 running, covering unsightly deaths, deserted 
 paths and feeble garden plans. Tame 
 creatures grown wild. Each year the rains 
 revive their failing life. Do you know 
 nasturtiums and geraniums in a deserted 
 California garden ? 
 
IX 
 
 One does not need hashish. A canyon course 
 will do. Nor opium, nor absinthe. But a day 
 intensely blue. Some high hills to dream upon. 
 A spirit hand to trace. A cob-web shining 
 in the grass with all its faith in lace. The 
 eucalyptus near the sky, pillar of reaching grace. 
 The quarry pool at twilight is the meeting place. 
 
My neighbor s houses run down the hill 
 swiftly. They begin at a eucalyptus grove that 
 touches the sky. At the bottom they slip into 
 the sea. At night their lights are like spots of 
 brilliance on a stream. 
 
 10 
 
XI 
 
 From five to six, the women are putting on 
 their aprons. And peeling potatoes. All 
 righting for peace within themselves. Only 
 here and there a great, forgetting heart. Let 
 them come out and sit with me upon the 
 canyon bank. For peace is here. Slow peace, 
 enduring peace. The elderberry sways, the 
 
 golden-flowering broom The air is full 
 
 of nature s harmonies. The blessing of the 
 sun is on my head. The greeting of the earth 
 is on my hands. And my sick mind is gone. 
 Let them come out. 
 
 ii 
 
XII 
 
 The whole house was about twenty by twenty. 
 And the living room filled with the smell of 
 Sunday dinner. Yet they sat there, such huge 
 people,-a great woman by the window fanning 
 herself, a heavy man with suspendered figure 
 and a neighbor s massive wife. They sat there 
 talking little things on a Sunday afternoon. 
 And outside were the canyon and the foot-hills 
 and far, beckoning mountains, great luring 
 spaces. Yet they sat there on a Sunday after 
 noon in what they called the living room. 
 
 12 
 
XIII 
 
 Lovely lady of Japan. Iris blossoming in 
 January, on my canyon s edge. Purple of the 
 mysterious night and blue of the radiant 
 morning. With my red curved scissors, made 
 for you by your brothers, I greet you to prepare 
 you for your destiny. Here in my turquoise 
 bowl, in your gracious perfection, you shall be 
 Heaven. And this rare blade of green, leaning 
 away from you, shall be Earth. Between you, 
 reaching and rising, with the silver rain of the 
 dew on their bosoms, this stalk of buds. These 
 three on a subtly twisting stem shall be Man. 
 I lift you reverently. I bid you welcome to my 
 house, upon the altar of my table. 
 
XIV 
 
 The canyon echoes our idle dreams. The day 
 is large and benign. Through interweaving of 
 fern and bay the veil of the sky is very near. 
 The bosom of heaven is touching the hill. And 
 
 we lie very still. We do not try to answer 
 
 There is a thrill of spring. And we could sing 
 the answer. From the fog and the rain and 
 the night, life and life and light! Into this 
 garden of mine that grows at the end of the 
 trail, spring and the whistling quail! 
 
XV 
 
 Your voice is like the wind s voice in the valley. 
 Your eyes have seemed to hold the light of 
 summer noons. Your hands are quick with 
 understanding. I know you in a thousand 
 voices. In a thousand moods. And when you 
 hold me in your arms, I know your soul as I 
 cannot know my own. 
 
CANYON VOICES 
 
I like to wear my rubber hat when the rain 
 tapples on it. I like an umbrella, too, when 
 the drops race from the points. But I like my 
 rain hat better, because the sky water is 
 nearer my head. 
 
II 
 
 Cornflakes to-night. I m glad. I like them 
 now. Almost I like everything but squash. 
 Madre, my heart tells me squash is nasty! 
 
Ill 
 
 Precious, most precious, most infinitely 
 precious! Baby lover of the widest world, 
 smiling at me as you drink milk of life and life 
 of milk. Little fat philosopher, Jimmy! 
 
 21 
 
IV 
 
 You are so beautiful, my little lad! So soft, 
 so dear, you make me glad with a great gladness. 
 That reaches out to other babies on other 
 stars. Come, let us dance our way to Mars! 
 You know the way. You little, warm, sweet 
 breathing thing, with marabout hair and 
 apricot skin! My little, lovely baby,-oh, we 
 must have faith in human ends, when 
 beginnings can be as beautiful as you. 
 
 22 
 
Dear little lover of life, with your morning 
 shout of joy. And your evening peace as you 
 nestle down, a little sleepy boy. Dear little 
 lover of life, I have seen you worship the sun. 
 I have heard you answer the meadow lark, 
 just when the day was begun. Dear little 
 lover of life, you seem so wise and gay! Is it 
 because you but begin, or, do you know the 
 way? 
 
VI 
 
 My gay baby sits on the canyon bank with his 
 brother s jazz cap on the side of his head. 
 It is made of pie pieces of orange and purple. 
 He waves his arms, and roars and gurgles and 
 screams his joy at this blossom day of spring. 
 With a fat, pink foot he pounds a rattle. 
 
VII 
 
 My canary and my baby sing to me when the 
 soft light touches the western wall. I give my 
 canary water. I give my baby milk. And then 
 I go to sleep again. I am stupidly unaware 
 of the morning joy of my baby and my canary. 
 
VIII 
 
 Hail, little toy-grabber! Hail, O brother baby! 
 Where are you gone? The quail are calling for 
 you in the canyon. There is a shining new 
 shovel in the sand-pile. And I want you, O 
 my brother baby. You may have the wagon 
 and the watering-pot. I will give you the 
 biggest pieces. I will help you gather the 
 eucalyptus cups. Without you it isn t any fun. 
 Come back, O my brother baby! 
 
 26 
 
IX 
 
 Darling. And dearest. And little baby love- 
 bud, sweeter and neater than a rose. Fairer 
 and rarer than a lover in the springtime, little 
 baby kinglet tickle-toes! I want to taste you. 
 I want to smell you. I want to hear you 
 gurgle, bubble, crow. I want to love you 
 unutterably. I want to cherish you so tenderly. 
 I want to help you, old wobble-head, to be a 
 troubadour in a sad world. 
 
SANTA FE LIMITED 
 
 AND 
 
 DESERT SKETCHES 
 
SANTA FE LIMITED. 
 I IN THE MORNING. 
 
 In the morning, rows of olive trees, their 
 branches tipped with silver, shining upward. 
 The desert and new cotton fields and gins. 
 Barren henna foot-hills. Flocks of sheep with 
 Mexican shepherds and burros and dogs. Pale 
 green snow on the horizon mountains. Long 
 stretches of sun on blue-green alfalfa fields. 
 Dark grey fir trees in masses beneath the 
 clouds. After Tehachapi, mirages on either 
 side. Clear sheets of blue water below the 
 purple needles of the mountains. And the 
 desert. Always the desert. For miles a stern 
 and mysterious bosom. The red bluffs at 
 Pinta, Holbrook, Adamana, have white 
 embroidery of snow. In Arizona the rivers of 
 sand are flowing to the mountains. And the 
 mountains are flowing down to meet them. 
 Inside the train, cards and the flipping of 
 words. Outside, the desert. Always the 
 desert, silent, mysterious. 
 
II TOURIST FROM IOWA. 
 
 Say, look at that cliff! Now really, isn t 
 Nature beautiful? Of course, only an Indian 
 would live here. But what is more wonderful 
 than Nature, after all. Now there s a nice 
 thing to paint. Lovely, that canyon, the way 
 Nature has shaped it all out. Talk about the 
 Canadian Rockies, they couldn t be any 
 handsomer than this. Do your eyes hurt? 
 Mine do, looking at all this scenery since we 
 left Los Angeles. There s really too much to 
 see. It s a quarter after eleven now. Porter, 
 when do we eat? 
 
Ill SANTA FE. 
 
 We are here at last! At this citadel, the end of 
 the trail. The palace of the governors, this 
 city of the holy faith. At the mountains of 
 the Blood of Christ I will meet you. I will meet 
 you when the mountains are touched with the 
 blood of the sun. Let us kiss and part quickly. 
 At the mountains of the Blood of Christ. 
 
 33 
 
IV TWO MEN. 
 
 Ain t it a pity they don t cultivate this land? 
 
 No water. 
 
 Well, give it to the soldiers, I ll say. 
 
 34 
 
V THE TRAINS. 
 
 The trains are weaving into Chicago. Have 
 you seen them weaving into Chicago? 
 Shuttle engines, warp of stiff steel rails. From 
 the east, from the north, from the south, 
 from the west, northeast, northwest, southeast, 
 southwest, from the desert and from the 
 mountains, from the snow and from the sun, 
 the trains are weaving into Chicago. 
 Through the ugly tapestry of tenemented 
 streets the trains are weaving into Chicago. 
 
 35 
 
VI INDIAN PUEBLO. 
 
 An Indian pueblo in New Mexico was very 
 quiet in the afternoon sun. After the grinding 
 sigh of the brakes, silence and the desert. And 
 the desert s people who live in beauty. White 
 and yellow adobe houses with blue doorways 
 surrounded by peach trees in pink bloom. An 
 old Indian, wrapped in a white blanket, stood 
 on the top roof of the pueblo. He stood 
 silently looking across the desert to the 
 sacred mountains. Below Indian women were 
 making black pottery, baking it in mud ovens. 
 An old woman in a red blanket did not raise 
 her eyes to the train. 
 
VII IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 In the night, Colorado, prairie Kansas. 
 Uneasy sleep and noises of the railroad yards. 
 Flashings of lanterns, shuntings, husky 
 voices. The train slips through the night, 
 running, triumphant. In the silences, 
 comfortable snorings. The desert and the 
 prairie are left behind. And the people who 
 live in beauty. In the night the trains are 
 weaving into Chicago. Shuttle engines, warp 
 of stiff steel rails. Through the ugly tapestry 
 of tenemented streets the trains are weaving 
 into Chicago. 
 
 37 
 
TRAIN VENDER. 
 
 Folks, your attention now. To the left as we 
 round the next curve you ll catch a glimpse of 
 the Sauger d Christy Mountains. This means 
 Blood of Christ. Be ready now, and you ll 
 get a real view. They re covered with snow 
 now, but when those ancient padres first saw 
 them they were red with the sunset. Hence 
 the name. I have here some smoked glasses 
 just dimmed enough to take away the glare. 
 They are ventilated at the sides and specially 
 fitted to the head. Fifty cents a pair. Who s 
 taking care of the eyes ? Thank you, sir. 
 Thank you, ma am. Got any goggles, lady? 
 No, thank you, man. I am resisting you. 
 Your technique is too perfect. 
 Ladies and gentlemen, glance now to your 
 right. The Collegiate Rockies. Those three 
 high fellers are called Harvard, Yale and 
 Princeton. I have here some lemon drops, if 
 any of you feel this mountain sickness. Ten 
 cents a package, crisp and snappy. We re 
 going to be on the top of the world in a minute 
 
 38 
 
now. Ten thousand, two hundred and forty- 
 two feet. The station is called Tennessee Pass. 
 Here Uncle Sam maintains a post office, so you 
 can make the folks at home happy with some 
 of these view-folders. All the points of interest 
 for twenty cents. Thank you, ma am. Thank 
 you, sir. Lady, don t you want to make 
 someone at home happy? 
 No, thank you, man. I am resisting you for 
 the good of your soul. 
 
 To the right now, look sharp. And you ll see 
 a gold mine in operation. Now folks, I have 
 some nice fresh figs right from California. 
 They re just packed and very juicy. Only 
 fifteen cents and right from California. Who 
 says prices are not down? Your money back 
 if these figs are not delicious. Thank you, 
 ma am. Thank you, sir. Ain t you hungry 
 this afternoon, lady? What can I get you, 
 ma am? Some nice peanuts, oranges, 
 chocolate-covered cherries, chewing-gum or 
 scenic playing cards? A magazine now, maybe. 
 Or a real good book? 
 No, thank you, man. 
 Lady, you been on this route before? I don t 
 
 39 
 
think so now, cause I m pretty good at 
 
 remembering faces. 
 
 I ll wager you are, man. 
 
 An apple, lady? Let me get you a wine-sap 
 
 right from these Colorado trees. 
 
 All right, brother. You win. And a truce 
 
 with an apple, a dark red wine-sap from 
 
 these Colorado trees. There is no way of 
 
 escaping you. You are a convincing American, 
 
 an alluring salesman of the Blood of Christ 
 
 or lemon drops. 
 
 40 
 
RITUAL. 
 
 I place myself on this high altar. In the 
 white sunlight of the desert. I wrap myself 
 in white, woven cloths. In the white silence 
 of the desert. I set a censer of song and two 
 prayer feathers. In the white sunlight of the 
 desert. I may not have the prayer of my body 
 and of my heart. But I will live near a white 
 flame. In the white silence of the desert. 
 
STAR. 
 
 Pale and high, the evening star glimmers, 
 frostily, in the north, where I am. It glows 
 with fire, in the south, where you are. 
 Everything glows, in the south, where you are, 
 
DESERT SONG 
 
 Kacha, my love bird, how goes it with thee 
 in the desert? An exile speaks. Does the 
 yellow moon go yearning over the mountains 
 to the south? Does the yellow moon go 
 yearning over the mountains to the south? 
 Ah, I know it does. For I feel the call of it 
 in me, here. Heart of me, goodnight! 
 Goodnight! 
 
 43 
 
DESERT NOON. 
 
 My feet are great iron weights hanging miles 
 from my body. My hands are low-lying ranges 
 of ribbed rock reaching to each horizon. My 
 head is a great bowlder of pictured stone on a 
 slender hill-top. Only my heart is here, strong 
 as the sun s heat. When the afternoon is 
 unendurable, and we crawl into the shadow 
 of the adobe, my heart is fresh and lightly 
 moving. 
 
 44 
 
TO MARGERY. 
 
 Someday, in memory, some vagrant breeze 
 will bring to you the fragrance of your soul 
 that night of desert rain. And of my hair. 
 When you are massive and definite you will 
 remember,-a handkerchief. And you will 
 know I have been with you always. 
 
 45 
 
HOOF TUNE. 
 
 Hoof beats on the desert on a moonlight night. 
 Do they come to me? Do they come to me? 
 Horse and rider are one to-night. Does he come 
 to me? Does he come to me? Call of coyote 
 on the mesa height shrills to the exquisite 
 torture of the night. Shall we ride, shall we 
 dance as one to-night. Is he coming to me? 
 Is he coming to me? 
 
DESERT RETURN. 
 
 Night and silence. And the desert wide. Luring 
 the soul to its infinite stride. A moon so near, 
 so roundly clear above the southern mountain 
 host. O, desert mountains, to you at last! 
 Desert mountains, to you I ride. In your blue 
 canyons let me abide. Moon of the desert, 
 welcome me. Peace of the desert, set me free. 
 Gods of the desert, quicken me, to love, to 
 live in this country. 
 
 47 
 
MOODS 
 
The night with stars is full of mystery. 
 Infinitude. But some there are who are afraid 
 of mystery. The day is theirs. The lighted, 
 measured day. Give me the night with eyes 
 
 to see great outlines. The night all 
 
 worlds are mine. 
 
II 
 
 I was a long and slender vessel. I drifted with 
 the winds. I shifted with the tides. With every 
 motion of the lovely, loving water beneath my 
 breast, the shining peacock water, the tossing 
 grey water, the foaming white water, I moved. 
 On the eddies of rowboats I bobbed. On the 
 long swells of ocean-goers I rode. I was a long 
 and slender vessel. I drifted with the winds. . . . 
 but only the length of my mooring line. 
 
Ill 
 
 Like a sea anemone, when anything comes 
 near, I fold myself away. You may hold me in 
 your hand. You may collect me for your sea 
 garden. But the eye of my soul is watching 
 you behind many barriers. Under the yellow 
 cliffs at night, in my purple, rocky bed, 
 with my rose and red companions I open my 
 heart to the lovely light of the moon. 
 
IV 
 
 I cannot ride on this high wave of the spirit 
 with you any longer. My roots go deeply into 
 a warm and fragrant earth. Are you always 
 so rare, so finely spirited? Or do you, too, long 
 sometimes for the warm hand of a friend on 
 your breast? Perhaps, tomorrow, spring in 
 the soul of me will send forth a thin flower to 
 touch with you your far world of dreams and 
 colored song. But not today. Today I want to 
 sleep in the sun. I cannot ride on this high 
 wave of the spirit with you any longer. 
 
 54 
 
Oh, gods in glory, whom men made,-and 
 women, especially women,-do you want to 
 stay there? If you do, give heed! Give heed 
 to the crowds, the ugly crowds. Give heed to 
 the human mass that seethes and breathes 
 and breeds in drains of cities. Give heed to the 
 drift that only pulses to a horizon. Oh, gods 
 in glory, whom men made,-and women, 
 especially women,-give heed to the crowds. 
 They do not give you increase. 
 
 55 
 
VI 
 
 Driftwood of the soul, what shall I do with you ? 
 If I leave you upon the shore you will be 
 washing out only to surge back again, tossed 
 by sure tides. I do not need you now. 
 My fuel is gathered for the winter. It is 
 stacked in neat piles. I know. I will burn 
 you. And in the purple magic, copper green 
 and blue I ll glimpse the wonders that I might 
 have lived. The sailor says that drift s the 
 thing to make the dreams come out. 
 
VII 
 
 The god I would be and the thing I am play 
 merry ball with grotesque posturings. They 
 leap upon the hills and strike. They grovel 
 cunningly and catch. But today I wish I were 
 a man to walk the middle way, serene, 
 like you, an honest artist. 
 
 57 
 
VIII 
 
 I am a singer and a lover. I gaze into my 
 mirror at my mouth. The sun shines into my 
 mirror and touches my mouth. And all my 
 being expands into a wish for you, for you to 
 touch my mouth. I gaze into my mirror and I 
 sing to you. I watch my lips which breathe 
 your name. And I know all history as a song 
 of love. I am a singer and a lover. 
 
IX 
 
 I am in armor, shining. And through the 
 glinting of my casque my eyes are shining wells 
 of fire. Then do not hold to me your hands. 
 I strike them with my sword. And do not ask 
 me with your eyes, or call my name. 
 For I step proudly on the highway. I am in 
 armor, shining. 
 
 59 
 
It passed, my mood of passion. But while it 
 lasted, my reach was to the stars, to the heart 
 of the earth, to the far horizons, east and west. 
 
 60 
 
XI 
 
 Take your loneliness away with you. And hide 
 it. Hide it under laughter and careless words. 
 Take your shyness away with you. And hide it. 
 Hide it behind proud eyes. If people are not 
 wise enough to know you lonely and shy, 
 let them think you gay and proud. 
 And come to me. 
 
 61 
 
XII 
 
 Someday, when there is no need but the need 
 of your beauty, my face, I will give you 
 the need of your beauty, the meed of your 
 beauty, oh, my lovely face. I will hang an 
 aquamarine crystal in the shadows of your neck, 
 the shadows of your eyes, the shadows of 
 your lips. Someday, when there is no need 
 but the need of your beauty. 
 
 62 
 
XIII 
 
 If you just keep putting on things you ll be 
 dressed. If you just keep doing things they ll 
 be finished. If you will not think you ll forget. 
 And if you dress and do things and do not think 
 you ll grow old successfully. 
 
XIV 
 
 To-night I want only negative things. Cold 
 and need and loneliness. I want to go naked 
 into fresh, dark air. Today I have had too 
 much. I have eaten too much. I have worn 
 too much. 
 
XV 
 
 The day quickens. With lines of rose and 
 green the sky is rayed above the foot-hills. 
 From out the inner dusk the tiny sounds of 
 life begin, a touching of the leaves, the moving 
 of small birds, uneasy mutterings of valley 
 trains. I cannot sleep. Impotently I turn from 
 side to side. From side to side I turn my 
 thoughts impotently. A rat is running in the 
 wall. Marauding dissonance, made large by 
 the wall s emptiness. 
 
XVI 
 
 A blue jay s screech is the only affirmation. 
 The twilight is grey. Let me sing to you my 
 palinode. My song of evening. My faith has 
 gone adventuring. My faith has gone 
 adventuring. In other lives. In other lives. 
 A thin moon watches me insensibly. 
 The fog creeps with ribbon fingers into the 
 canyons. And into the depths of me. 
 
 66 
 
MISCELLANEOUS 
 
YOUR VERSE. 
 
 Has it the glory of a flame at night? Has it 
 the magic of an opal s light? Is it divine, mad, 
 wild, a tree-god s reaching dream? Or is it 
 peaceful, full of majesty, an overwhelming 
 rhythmic stream, made of great harmonies and 
 slow-born melodies? Can it crash cymbals, 
 echoing, echoing, up and down,-an age, 
 round and round,-a world, vibrating to the 
 stars? And does it dance, and can it leap and 
 sing? And soothe, and make us understand? 
 Has it the passion of a desert night? Is it a 
 whimsy, light so light,-a feather tendril, 
 perhaps? Is it a wisp, is it a sob on the wind, 
 the thinnest sweetness of a harp, struck out 
 of doors? Is it the fullest sound of orchestra 
 with cellos and Italian lungs? Yes? Turquoise, 
 amethyst and jade,-but does it make you see 
 the colors, see the amber gleam, and peacock 
 iridescent, subtlest grey? Yes? And does 
 it make you climb and climb, and cling and 
 cling with bleeding fingers? No? We ask our 
 questions madly? Then let us laugh horribly, 
 
an orange satyr putting fingers to our mouths, 
 grotesquely whistling. That s it, a shrunken 
 gourd that once in the yellow sun lured with its 
 rounded promise. You call yourself a poet? 
 Peace. We re weary-souled. Glorious illusion, 
 luring form of other world we here but charcoal 
 clumsily,-the word of a God through stupid 
 lips. 
 
 70 
 
ALASKA SKETCHES. 
 
 I want to meet a mate at the head of the Yukon. 
 I want to float in an old rowboat down the 
 Yukon with a month s provisions. Twenty-one 
 hundred miles, I want to float. When we come 
 to small towns, posts on the islands, camps in 
 the forests, we ll chin in the sun. We ll fish and 
 we ll hunt. We ll sleep under the stars for 
 twenty-one hundred miles of the Yukon. 
 Why must I work in a shoe factory? 
 
II 
 
 The river was rilled with the salmon, with the 
 turgid passion of the salmon in the springtime. 
 They moved slowly upward to the northern hills. 
 They moved heavily upon their errand of life. 
 They threw themselves up cataracts, leaped 
 shallow pools, pushed each other gaping upon 
 the banks. They slashed their bodies upon 
 rocks and jammed their heads between logs. 
 In the silence of northern hills, in icy northern 
 pools they died. And millions of new salmon 
 sought the sea, to live, to play, only to return 
 to those icy northern pools, to spawn, to die. 
 
DREAMS. 
 
 I was seeking his soul as a color, purple. 
 
 It was a dream in a vague world of dreams. 
 
 And he was seeking mine, a dull, sea green. 
 
 But in an underworld of seeking forms and 
 
 merging colors another soul, more brilliantly 
 
 green, bewildered him. At last we met. 
 
 In a perfect meadow at sunrise. A wild iris 
 
 and its sheath. A green flycatcher chattered on 
 
 a fence. 
 
 73 
 
II 
 
 Trees and clouds and bats. And fat Chinese 
 with strange, flat hats. Embroidered on an 
 ancient altar cloth. These were part of the 
 dream. And I was floating on a silken stream, 
 stitched by deft ringers in another world. 
 And did it only seem, the little hillocks, blue 
 and gold, the grotesque flowers, surely bold? 
 Orange and purple the maker s scheme. 
 
 I was very young in the dream I was a 
 
 foundling soul, wrapped in an ancient altar 
 cloth. 
 
 74 
 
NEW YORK, MAY 6. 
 
 Today defeated winter sits brooding under a 
 sullen sky. He bites his nails between gusty 
 snorts. Now why can t he be gracious when 
 everyone knows he is in love with the spring. 
 
 75 
 
CHARIOT OF THE DEAD. 
 
 A motor hearse went flashing by 
 triumphantly black and silver in the 
 April sunlight. But all the children 
 stopped their play to gaze after 
 it as it skidded round a corner. 
 
CEMETERY. 
 
 Home burial park. Artistic locations for 
 mausoleums. One hundred acres of landscape 
 and lawn, trees and grassy knolls. Expert 
 care of graves. Eight minutes from the city by 
 motor hearse. Get our terms. 
 Get my terms, soul. Take your body to a clean, 
 quick fire that it may be sweet in death. 
 And, soul. If it be the springtime in New 
 England, blow the dust of me by the roots of 
 a pink dogwood that blossoms outward in 
 shelves of color. I thank you, soul. You have 
 loved this body. 
 
 77 
 
LOITERER. 
 
 Am I a loiterer on these premises? I am a 
 loiterer upon the earth. If I am a loiterer on 
 these premises I am liable to be prosecuted to 
 the full extent of the law. So the sign says, 
 the law of the midland subway company. 
 But if I am a loiterer upon the earth I think I 
 am liable to be blessed to the full extent of 
 the law. 
 
YOUNG BOY. 
 
 Young life, young lust, young love are in my 
 heart with the singing spring. And is there 
 anything else? Black death, black dearth, black 
 despair? Perhaps. But they belong to the 
 winter. To the old winter. 
 
 79 
 
SPRING. 
 
 Spring, the eternal dear, has been on a visit 
 to western parts. She says she grew tired of 
 being so steadily beautiful. She is flirting with 
 me. She is coaxing me and luring me back to 
 love her again. Spring, the eternal dear. 
 
 80 
 
LOUISE. 
 
 Putting away, putting away, I spend half 
 
 of the glorious day, putting away that others 
 
 may find when they wish to play. 
 
 81 
 
PORTRAIT. 
 
 There, hold your head. This light is wonderful. 
 I can see the iris in your eyes. And that singing 
 purple, am I to get it? Blue and red and the 
 sunlight. Sometimes one feels it an impertinence 
 to paint, especially things as paintable as you. 
 A red complexion is so difficult to do, so fine. . . . 
 the blues that come around the nose and throat. 
 Now rest your neck, that long, long neck. 
 I know it needs it. And poke the fire. 
 But don t look at this. It must be further along. 
 Ah, what a maddening piece of flesh you are. 
 I look at you, and you are lavender. 
 I look again and you re a yellow green. 
 I can but play these colors to catch the beauties 
 that elude me. Your mouth was made to paint 
 or kiss. Perhaps you re just as glad I am the 
 
 artist. That bone I have it now. 
 
 It bothered me. It s strange a thing so different 
 could be so surely you. 
 
 82 
 
FORD SEDAN. 
 
 A Ford sedan is so nice for a college professor. 
 It is so snug and grey and so easy to run. 
 From the house to the laboratory. From the 
 laboratory to the house. From the house to the 
 
 laboratory And then, its price is 
 
 proletarian. Its mission aristocratic. 
 
CAMPUS GIRL. 
 
 Sculptured hair. And eyes as hard. But a 
 
 soft mouth oh, the weakness of me! Her 
 
 mouth was a flower of quince and orange that 
 tried to hold my life. 
 
MAHLER SYMPHONY. 
 
 O, the glory of the soul of man, the basses 
 thundered, the brasses paeaned. And the beauty 
 of the soul of woman, the violins breathed, 
 the wood-winds sang. The glory of the soul 
 of man, the beauty of the soul of woman,- 
 the wonder of the world,-belled, rocked, 
 plunged, shrieked, waved, danced, sawed, 
 drummed the symphony. The lady on my 
 right said she hoped the meat had come for 
 supper. The lady on my left said she had 
 forgotten to lock the back door. 
 
KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 What every woman knows it is no 
 
 beauty secret, rare and old. It is not how to 
 cherish men, or how to love a child. 
 It is a greater knowing. What every woman 
 knows, surely, is, that she can wear navy blue. 
 
 86 
 
TO A DAHLIA IN A SHOW. 
 
 You lovely scarlet gesture. Breath and blood. 
 I like your smell of summer mud. But better, 
 I like the neatness of your escape from a 
 bourgeois border. You lovely scarlet gesture. 
 Breath and blood. 
 
A WOMAN I KNOW. 
 
 A woman I know creates. She makes carvings, 
 lines and fabrics. She makes children, food 
 and flowers. She dyes long threads in a colored 
 maze and weaves them into beauty s strand. 
 She plays. She plays with a moon of song. 
 With her feet purple in sun-warmed grapes she 
 puts her lips to a star s breast. The breath that 
 is a part of the large winds of the world passes 
 through her. 
 
 88 
 
WE PRAYED. 
 
 I prayed that I might reach your soul, 
 that I might be worthy. I prayed. 
 You laughed. That I could be humble! 
 But I was terrible. You laughed. 
 And then I laughed and you prayed, 
 
THREE WISHES. 
 
 I wish I had a fat soul that did not tremble 
 when beauty touched me. I wish I could sit 
 by a window all day and have the sun reflected 
 by my placidity. I wish I could look into your 
 eyes and lie unflinchingly. 
 
 90 
 
TO A HUMMING BIRD. 
 
 You lovely little tuft of glory, humming, 
 drumming, round my Spanish broom. Your 
 rufflet is so impudently splendid it needs your 
 mate to bring the world to tone. 
 You little exquisite, be for a moment still, 
 that I may have your beauty, at my will. 
 
 9 1 
 
RESISTANCE. 
 
 Against the clamoring passion of you I can 
 measure a day when I saw a cornfield stained 
 with blood. It had the new hush of oblivion 
 ver it. 
 
SEASONS. 
 
 My warm hand upon my face is beautiful in 
 the winter. My cold hands are beautiful upon 
 my thighs in the summer. My two souls are 
 one in the spring. And in the fall I sleep. 
 
 93 
 
FOR GLORIA. 
 
 Lift your body up to me, slim and straight 
 as a young birch tree. And as white. 
 Under the glory of your hair that is so pale 
 and thick and rare, my delight! And then, 
 reach until you pass me by. Until your reach 
 is to the sky. Through the night. 
 
 94 
 
FROM GLORIA. 
 
 You said you loved my hair. You said, 
 
 It is all mine. This glory. Red with purple 
 
 shadows. We were Life s lovers. 
 
 With each quickening breath, we dreamed. 
 
 W 7 e dared. And you are dead. And I 
 
 I have my riotous mass that no man sees. 
 
 95 
 
LOSS. 
 
 Many springs I have turned to the new life, 
 felt the old illusion. With the rain in the wind 
 and the grass in its birth I have renewed my 
 faith. But now you are gone and the spring 
 has come. And there is no change in me. 
 I am like the brown leaves on the live oak. 
 They touch the moving green, but they are 
 dead and hard. Only the fury of the storm 
 can change them now. 
 
AQUAMARINE. 
 
 Some lovely things endure because they are 
 the life of Beauty. Aquarmarine beads like 
 your eyes and like the sea in shallow edging 
 pools. Nine hundred years ago they touched 
 the throat of a Chinese princess. Some lovely 
 things endure because they are the life of 
 Beauty. Today they touch your throat, your 
 vainly lovely throat. 
 
 97 
 
JADE, 
 
 When the slender neck of my jade maiden is 
 encircled by my necklace she is infinitely remote. 
 She is infinitely alluring. It hangs between her 
 two young breasts. It is the green of glacial 
 ice, of hidden northern seas. Its light is as 
 soft as starlight. It protects her from all evil. 
 
HEELS. 
 
 No heels for the dawning, the early tip of the 
 dawning. And no soles for the matter of that, 
 with the Irish grass to run upon. Low heels 
 for the morning, the very top of the morning. 
 Low, good heels to do my work upon. And for 
 the afternoon, when I walk in to Derry? 
 Oh, a sober heel about an inch and a half. 
 But high heels for the evening. Oh, high French 
 heels /or Jerry! Light heels, slender heels, 
 shining high, high heels, for Jerry and the 
 dance! 
 
 99 
 
HOUSE AT CARMEL. 
 
 April and two pale young moons. In the clouds 
 and on the sea. Hiding, dancing, beckoning to 
 the wind to set them free. April and the serried 
 coast. With ghost waves breaking high on 
 phantom rocks that hold their breasts to the 
 
 shock of the rhythmic tide who but a 
 
 man could build a wall against the ocean s sigh? 
 
 100 
 
MIRAFLORES. 
 
 Miraflores of the saints, on the plain outside of 
 Burgos. Take a low carriage along the road 
 where the poplars touch by the river. 
 Dark, grey walls and bare and distant hills. 
 Wait at the gate with the beggars who whine in 
 the sun. And within P Peace. An ancient 
 brother in a white Carthusian gown blesses you. 
 He leads you to the treasure of the church, 
 the marble wonder of de Siloe. Where Isabella s 
 parents lie, under immortal effigies. 
 Paintings, altars, iron screens, he shows you 
 patiently. And patiently he answers many 
 questions. He never heard of Chicago. 
 And France,-he never had been there. 
 But he would show me his rose garden. 
 Peace. And beauty. And uncommon sense. 
 
 101 
 
HUMMING. 
 
 There s a singing in my heart with the wind. 
 With the wind in its full rhythm as it beats 
 around the world. With the wind. 
 Over northern pine and mountain. Through the 
 desert to the ocean. There s a singing in my 
 heart with the wind. There s a singing in my 
 heart with the wind. With the wind in its wide 
 motion from the desert to the ocean. 
 There s a singing in my heart with the wind. 
 
 1 02 
 
CHRISTMAS WISH. 
 
 Now the sun turns to a New Year. 
 And many men rejoice in newer births and 
 holy days. May you rejoice with sun and man. 
 With gods and men may your spirit leap and 
 sing. 
 
 103 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY