Poetry: A Magazine of Verse
The love of multitudes, makes way
And welcome for them, as a solitary star
Brings on the great array.
Go make a calendar,"
She said, “immortalize this day."
II
"A stranger might be God,” the Hindus cry.
But Celia says, importunate:
“The stranger must be God, and you and I."
III
Once in a smoking-car I saw a scene
That made my blood stand still.
The sun was smoldering in a great ravine,
And I, with elbow on the window-sill,
Was watching the dim ember of the west.
When hushed and low, but poignant as a bell
For fire, there came a moan: the voice of one in hell.
Across the car were two young men,
French by their look, and brothers,
Unhappy men who had been happy boys,
And one was moaning on the other's breast.
His face was hid away. I could not tell
What words he said, half English and half French. I only knew
[4]
