Main Street and Other Poems

They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years, And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears. It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far, But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.

The Snowman in the Yard

(For Thomas Augustine Daly)

The Judge's house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone, And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the seas; In the Hales' garage you could put my house and everything I own, And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees.

Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot, And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred; But when Winter comes, I have something there that the Judge and the Hales have not, And it's better worth having than all their wealth -- it's a snowman in the yard.

The Judge's money brings architects to make his mansion fair; The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow; The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere, And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow.

But I have something no architect or gardener ever made, A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands: And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid For the tiny house with the trampled yard, the yard where the snowman stands.

They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears To toil and suffer their life-time through, because of the sin they sinned, The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years, To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce their flesh with the icy wind.

But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread, Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred: And through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red, For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard.

A Blue Valentine

(For Aline)

Monsignore, Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni, Now of the delightful Court of Heaven, I respectfully salute you, I genuflect And I kiss your episcopal ring.

It is not, Monsignore, The fragrant memory of your holy life, Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom, Which causes me now to address you. But since this is your august festival, Monsignore, It seems appropriate to me to state According to a venerable and agreeable custom, That I love a beautiful lady. Her eyes, Monsignore, Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections On everything that she looks at, Such as a wall Or the moon Or my heart. It is like the light coming through blue stained glass, Yet not quite like it, For the blueness is not transparent, Only translucent. Her soul's light shines through, But her soul cannot be seen. It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise And noble. She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment, Made in the manner of the Japanese. It is very blue -- I think that her eyes have made it more blue, Sweetly staining it As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form. Loving her, Monsignore, I love all her attributes; But I believe That even if I did not love her I would love the blueness of her eyes, And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.

Monsignore, I have never before troubled you with a request. The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid, Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood, And your brother bishop, my patron, The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari. But, of your courtesy, Monsignore, Do me this favour: When you this morning make your way To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses because of her who sits upon it, When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady, I beg you, say to her: "Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth, Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you For wearing a blue gown."