groans;
The earth trembles in terror—
And lies silent.
(Published in the 1944 National Anthology of High School Poetry with honorable mention.
The Snow Of Peace
The snow of peace is drifting gently
From the starless night of war,
Each transparent flake an unuttered prayer.
In the World,
That great city of the human race,
Children of nations laugh and play
Together,
Once more.
In the background,
Squat factories belch smoke contentedly
On a diet
Of rocket and atomic bombs.
Soon,
The purest snowdrift
Will be covered once again
With soot.
Beyond The Moon
Men call it loneliness,
Yet how can tongues
Devise a name
For the barren wasteland
Where I found myself?
By day,
The glare of others’ happiness
Blinded
My searching eyes;
By night,
Pale fire of stars
Lured me
To magic worlds
Where Beauty reigns.
Then—
Dawn found but hot sands,
And Desire’s parched throat
Gasped for the cooling waters
Beyond the moon …
Desolately through the years,
I stumbled onward,
And Hope,
Ever my guide,
Began to call me “Fool”.
Those lonely nights,
Each rustle
Of the black lace trees
Was but a sob to me.
At length,
I fell,
Senseless,
To the burning floor
Of my despair.
When I awoke,
The cooling fingers
Of Spring Rain
Stroked my fevered head.
The fingers
Led me up the rainbow’s arch,
And as I neared its end,
Heaven’s own guardian
Stood waiting
In the pastel mists—
One kiss,
And I had tasted
The waters—
Beyond the moon.
God Made My Heart
God made my heart
From a thousand petals of the summer’s rose
That fell at dawn;
He mixed with it the liquid, colored notes
Of linnets
Singing to the spotted clouds;
He covered it
With wings of frailest luna moths;
Then painted it with violet dew
From stately fringèd gentians;
For God knew
Only the beautiful
Could come
As gifts to you.
Sketch
A gnarled figure,
Bent,
Desolate;
Feeble rays of hope
Choked
By the formless fingers
Of the Fog;
Echoes of a phantom’s footsteps;
Silence.
Sonnet On Graduation
You have become a traveler now, dear heart;
A single piece of parchment made it so;
In amber clouds of dawn it has its start,
The road ahead, and you are free to go.
Your eyes are golden east, but look again
Where ragged purple clouds now dim the west,
In that vague distance is your journey’s end;
Beneath the purple hills will you find rest.
The road that separates the two is long,
And on its way will come work’s weariness,
But if, within your soul, you have a song,
There will be, for the heartbreak, happiness.
Dear heart, just sing this song your youth began,
And you will reach the purple hills, a man.
Pianist
The fingers of a soul
Move swiftly,
And a dormant river
Of pulsing melody
Flows forth,—
And is still.
My Love Grows Deep
My love grows deep,
Deep in my soul;
It is watered by tears,
And grows,
A shade from the withering heat
Of desire.
Sweet and cool,
And silence-tinted,
Its roots reach out,
And fasten me to you.
Death Of A Rose
O glowing rose on yonder graceful vine,
Thy tiny crimson bud of fire so fair,
The dewdrops on thy silken petals shine
As brilliantly as sparkling jewels rare.
And all the other flowers envy thee,
For thou alone of them art blessed of God;
Thou bloomest in eternal memory
Of those reposing on a couch of sod.
Thy velvet leaves fall slowly to the grass,
And there are trodden ’neath the feet of men;
The carelessness of these blind souls who pass
Returns to dust thy beauty once again
And there on earth marks where the angels bled.
I weep; the rose of life must soon be dead.
A Song
Knives,
Blue and gleaming;
Shapeless blotches
On four straight walls;
The odor of stars,
And small black dogs
Running
In circles.
Black plumes
Of ancient trees,
Trying in vain to sweep
The dusty cobwebs
From the sky.
Clocks and hearts—
Beating,
Beating.
A pattern,
Octagons and hexagons
On a square rug,
In a square room
With square windows;
The feel of veined hands
And a dead leaf;
The beating wings
Of human moths
Trying to reach a light.
You Are Angels’ Choirs
There lurks somewhere,
Within the pastel colored mists of morning,
One golden note,
One liquid note,
That I would bring to you.
But I,
The humble singer,
Find myself unworthy
To even hum the sweet refrain
Of you;
For I know only trills of birds,
And tunes the wind plays
On the harp of trees;
While you are angels’ choirs,
And haunting notes of violins
Like sunbeams
Through the stained glass window
Of a church.
Blood
The moon was the color of blood that night,
And the mist hung thick as smoke;
I had fallen asleep with a heart in my breast
That was still when I awoke.
For the blood that had coursed through my veins was gone,
It sailed with the Navy’s fleet;
It was warm and alive in another chest,
Why should my heart still beat?
The sun was the color of blood that morn,
Parched earth shone dull in its rays,
And the emerald grass hung with ropes of pearls
Seemed to wither before my gaze.
I belonged to life, yet death claimed me, too,
With a stronger bond than I knew,
Yet the warning had stirred in my silent soul
Before the battle was through.
The sea was the color of blood that day,
His ship was the col
or of death;
The fog hung low like a velvet veil;
Death laughed at his every breath.
With my face in his heart, and my name on his lips,
And my blood singing through his veins,
He raised his eyes to the droning skies—
Then he saw the enemy planes.
His chest was the color of blood at dusk,
And my life was in every drop,
And that stain still spreads with a hungry flow
That only a peace can stop.
A Butterfly and a Man’s Mind
A butterfly and a man’s mind—
Not so different;
A whim veers both
From the steady course
They chartered;
The mind of man
Flutters along
On the path
Prescribed
By the wind
Of opinion.
But, perhaps,
In this they differ:
A butterfly
Is beautiful.
To Nicky
You believed in me.
And from the simple faith
You had for others,
A song was born,
And in this song you live.
When, for the last time,
I laid my hand
Upon your shaggy head,
It was not to say “good-bye”,
But only,
“Good night, Nicky”,
As I had said so many times.
For there was One who said:
“He who believes in Me
Shall never taste death.”
And so—
Good night, my dearest friend.
1945–06–02
I am the fool:
I see pale fire of stars,
And they are mine.
I think of others,
But feed my own hunger
On the moldy bread of poverty.
Then there is the bat,
The dark bat,
Flying against the darker fingers
Of the trees;
And a cold mist—
What good is it to scream?
To rail against the loom
Of Destiny?
Who is there beside me
But the sea?
Who can hear me but the sun?
I am the fool:
I see beauty in a flower petal,
Ice pink,
Chiseled by a silver knife,
Tempered in the white hot fire
Of distant stars.
I dance—
I laugh—
Liquid silver laughter—
Laughter made of icicles
With the sun shining on them.
Then there is the bat,
The dark bat,
Flying against the darker fingers
Of the trees;
And a cold mist—
Every sunrise I am born again—
There is new life;
Yet when the clouds
Are but gray ashes,
I see
That there is very little life
In ashes.
I am the fool:
In my pregnant dream
I write wild words
To make another feel
What I have felt—
The sweet and bitter joy
Of chartreuse water
And chiffon of clouds—
But the bat keeps flying,
The great, dark, silent bat—
The fingers stir—
They are restless—
The mist sways, too—
……
There will be other centuries,
Other ages—
Mountains will be ground to ant hills,
And rivers shall consume it all;
Men will go to Heaven and to Hell;
But I shall still be here—
I am the fool:
I am timeless.
……
It will not be long—
Eternity is not a long time
When you have seen it as I have—
It will not be long
Until the great dark bat stops flying,
And the darker fingers of the trees
Lift my dry bones,—
And hold them.
Then, only, have I the right
To love.
For when I am dead
No one can rend my flesh.
Now—
I am the fool:
Yet when I die,
I shall be the wisest person
In the universe.
My Love Has Wings
I love my love with a love
Stronger