At the Carnival






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The Battle of Blenheim
At the Carnival
Before the Feast of Shushan
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Moonlight in the Pines









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little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank,
I desire a name for you, Nice, as a right glove fits;
For you--who amid the malodorous
Mechanics of this unlovely thing,
Are darling of spirit and form. I know you--a glance, and what you are

My Limousine-Lady knows you, or
Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile?
Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning.
The bull-necked man knows you--this first time
His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health
And thinks not of his avocation. I came incuriously--
Set on no diversion save that my mind Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds
In the presence of a blind crowd.
The color of life was gray.
Everywhere the setting seemed right For my mood. Here the sausage and garlic booth
Sent unholy incense skyward;
There a quivering female-thing Gestured assignations, and lied
To call it dancing;
There, too, were games of chance
With chances for none;
But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last!
Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free
The gaze you send the crowd, As though you know the dearth of beauty
In its sordid life. We need you--my Limousine-Lady,
The bull-necked man and I.
Seeing you here brave and water-clean, Leaven for the heavy ones of earth,
I am swift to feel that what makes
The plodder glad is good; and Whatever is good is God.
The wonder is that you are here;
I have seen the queer in queer places, But never before a heaven-fed Naiad of the Carnival-Tank!
Little Diver, Destiny for you,
Like as for me, is shod in silence;
Years may seep into your soul The bacilli of the usual and the expedient;
I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!