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THE RED SWIMMER
97
In an Old Street
By VINCENT STARRETT
Does the wind keep no saltness of their tears
Who lived and sorrowed here and now are dust?
Does the sun store no laughter and no lust
Of them that kissed and perished down the years?
Red as an ember from the molten spheres
Life was a flame where now the creeping rust
Gnaws the gaunt bones of silence; the proud thrust
Of the tall chimneys only perseveres.
Once there was drama rich and passionate
Under these symbols feeling for the sky;
Life was a joyous wound—and damn the scars!
Only the futile gesture stays thought I:
And for a time I paused to contemplate
The high and windy virtue of the stars.
