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| ONE August day I sat beside | |
| A café window open wide | |
| To let the shower-freshened air | |
| Blow in across the Plaza, where | |
| In golden pomp against the dark | 5 |
| Green leafy background of the Park, | |
| St. Gaudens’ hero, gaunt and grim, | |
| Rides on with victory leading him. | |
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| The wet, black asphalt seemed to hold | |
| In every hollow pools of gold, | 10 |
| And clouds of gold and pink and grey | |
| Were piled up at the end of day, | |
| Far down the cross street, where one tower | |
| Still glistened from the drenching shower. | |
| |
| A weary white-haired man went by, | 15 |
| Cooling his forehead gratefully | |
| After the day’s great heat. A girl, | |
| Her thin white garments in a swirl | |
| Blown back against her breasts and knees, | |
| Like a Winged Victory in the breeze, | 20 |
| Alive and modern and superb, | |
| Crossed from the circle to the curb. | |
| We sat there watching people pass, | |
| Clinking the ice against the glass, | |
| And talking idly—books or art, | 25 |
| Or something equally apart | |
| From the essential stress and strife | |
| That rudely form and further life, | |
| Glad of a respite from the heat, | |
| When down the middle of the street, | 30 |
| Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay | |
| In spite of the dull stifling day, | |
| Three street-musicians came. The man, | |
| With hair and beard as black as Pan, | |
| Strolled on one side with lordly grace, | 35 |
| While a young girl tugged at a trace | |
| Upon the other. And between | |
| The shafts there walked a laughing queen, | |
| Bright as a poppy, strong and free. | |
| What likelier land than Italy | 40 |
| Breeds such abandon? Confident | |
| And rapturous in mere living spent | |
| Each moment to the utmost, there | |
| With broad, deep chest and kerchiefed hair, | |
| With head thrown back, bare throat, and waist | 45 |
| Supple, heroic, and free-laced, | |
| Between her two companions walked | |
| This splendid woman, chaffed and talked, | |
| Did half the work, made all the cheer | |
Of that small company.
No fear | 50 |
| Of failure in a soul like hers | |
| That every moment throbs and stirs | |
| With merry ardor, virile hope, | |
| Brave effort, nor in all its scope | |
| Has room for thought or discontent, | 55 |
| Each day its own sufficient vent | |
And source of happiness.
Without | |
| A trace of bitterness or doubt | |
| Of life’s true worth, she strode at ease | |
| Before those empty palaces | 60 |
| A simple heiress of the earth, | |
| And all its joys by happy birth, | |
| Beneficent as breeze or dew, | |
| As fresh as though the world were new | |
| And toil and grief were not. How rare | 65 |
| A personality was there! | |
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