Then we would know that arms were made for aching--

I wish to G.o.d that I could go tomorrow!

AT A MOVIE THEATRE

How well he spoke who coined the phrase _The picture palace!_ Aye, in sooth A palace, where men's weary days Are crowned with kingliness of youth.

Strange palace! Crowded, airless, dim, Where toes are trod and strained eyes smart, We watch a wand of brightness limn The old heroics of the heart.

Romance again hath us in thrall And Love is sweet and always true, And in the darkness of the hall Hands clasp--as they were meant to do.

Remote from peevish joys and ills Our souls, _pro tem_, are purged and free: We see the sun on western hills, The crumbling tumult of the sea.

We are the blond that maidens crave, Well balanced at a dozen banks; By sleight of hand we haste to save A brown-eyed life, nor stay for thanks!

Alas, perhaps our instinct feels Life is not all it might have been, So we applaud fantastic reels Of shadow, cast upon a screen!

SONNETS IN A LODGING HOUSE

I

Each morn she crackles upward, tread by tread, All apprehensive of some hideous sight: Perhaps the Fourth Floor Back, who reads in bed, Forgot his gas and let it burn all night-- The Sweet Young Thing who has the middle room, She much suspects: for once some ink was spilled, And then the plumber, in an hour of gloom, Found all the bathroom pipes with tea-leaves filled.

No League of Nations scheme can make her gay-- She knows the rank duplicity of man; Some folks expect clean towels every day, They'll get away with murder if they can!

She tacks a card (alas, few roomers mind it) _Please leave the tub as you would wish to find it!_

II

Men lodgers are the best, the Mrs. said: They don't use my gas jets to fry sardines, They don't leave red-hot irons on the spread, They're out all morning, when a body cleans.

A man ain't so secretive, never cares What kind of private papers he leaves lay, So I can get a line on his affairs And dope out whether he is likely pay.

But women! Say, they surely get my bug!

They stop their keyholes up with chewing gum, Spill grease, and hide the damage with the rug, And fry marshmallows when their callers come.

They always are behindhand with their rents-- Take my advice and let your rooms to gents!

[Ill.u.s.tration:

_A man ain't so secretive, never cares_ _What kind of private papers he leaves lay_--]

THE MAN WITH THE HOE (PRESS)

About these roaring cylinders Where leaping words and paper mate, A sudden glory moves and stirs-- An inky cataract in spate!

What voice for falsehood or for truth, What hearts attentive to be stirred-- How dimly understood, in sooth, The power of the printed word!

These flashing webs and cogs of steel Have shaken empires, routed kings, Yet never turn too fast to feel The tragedies of humble things.

O words, be strict in honesty, Be just and simple and serene; O rhymes, sing true, or you will be Unworthy of this great machine!

DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE G.o.d?

Across the court there rises the back wall Of the Magna Carta Apartments.

The other evening the people in the apartment opposite Had forgotten to draw their curtains.

I could see them dining: the well-blanched cloth, The silver and gla.s.s, the crystal water jug, The meat and vegetables; and their clean pink hands Outstretched in busy gesture.

It was pleasant to watch them, they were so human; So gay, innocent, unconscious of scrutiny.

They were four: an elderly couple, A young man, and a girl--with lovely shoulders Mellow in the glow of the lamp.

They were sitting over coffee, and I could see their hands talking.

At last the older two left the room.

The boy and girl looked at each other....

Like a flash, they leaned and kissed.

Good old human race that keeps on multiplying!

A little later I went down the street to the movies, And there I saw all four, laughing and joking together.

And as I watched them I felt like G.o.d-- Benevolent, all-knowing, and tender.

RAPID TRANSIT

(To Stephen Vincent Benet.)

Climbing is easy and swift on Parna.s.sus!

Knocking my pipe out, I entered a bookshop; There found a book of verse by a young poet.

Comrades at once, how I saw his mind glowing!

Saw in his soul its magnificent rioting-- Then I ran with him on hills that were windy, Basked and laughed with him on sun-dazzled beaches, Glutted myself on his green and blue twilights, Watched him disposing his planets in patterns, Tumbling his colors and toys all before him.

I questioned life with him, his pulses my pulses; Doubted his doubts, too, and grieved for his anguishes.

Salted long kinship and knew him from boy-hood-- Pulled out my own sun and stars from my knapsack, Trying my trinkets with those of his finding-- _And as I left the bookshop_ _My pipe was still warm in my hand._