Suite

the domes of the Church ofthe Paulist Fathers in Weehawkenagainst a smoky dawn--the heart stirred--are beautiful as Saint Petersapproached after years of anticipation.

Though the operation was postponedI saw the tall probationersin their tan uniformshurrying to breakfast!

--and from basement entrysneatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemenwith orderly moustaches andwell brushed coats

--and the sun, dipping into the avenuesstreaking the tops ofthe irregular red houselets,andthe gay shadows dropping and dropping.

--and the rickety ferry-boat “Arden”!What an object to be called “Arden”among the great piers,--on theever new river!“Put me a Touchstoneat the wheel, white gulls, and we’llfollow the ghost of the Half Moonto the North West Passage--and through!(at Albany!) for all that!”

Exquisite brown waves--longcirclets of silver moving over you!enough with crumbling ice-crusts among you!The sky has come down to you,lighter than tiny bubbles, face toface with you!His spirit isa white gull with delicate pink feetand a snowy breast for you tohold to your lips delicately!

The young doctor is dancing with happinessin the sparkling wind, aloneat the prow of the ferry! He noticesthe curdy barnacles and broken ice crustsleft at the slip’s base by the low tideand thinks of summer and greenshell crusted ledges amongthe emerald eel-grass!

Who knows the Palisades as I doknows the river breaks east from themabove the city--but they continue south--under the sky--to bear a crest oflittle peering houses that brightenwith dawn behind the moodywater-loving giants of Manhattan.

Long yellow rushes bendingabove the white snow patches;purple and gold ribbonof the distant wood:what an angleyou make with each other asyou lie there in contemplation.

Work hard all your young daysand they’ll find you too, some morningstaring up underyour chiffonier at its warpedbass-wood bottom and your soul--out!--among the little sparrowsbehind the shutter.

All this--was for you, old woman.I wanted to write a poemthat you would understand.For what good is it to meif you can’t understand it?But you got to try hard--But--Well, you know howthe young girls run gigglingon Park Avenue after darkwhen they ought to be home in bed?Well,that’s the way it is with me somehow.