Verse > Anthologies > Harriet Monroe, ed. > Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1912–22
Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936).  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse.  1912–22.
By Raymond Peckham Holden
MOSTLY it is eyes that find me,
And your eyes are gone.
Shoe-strings I have little need of,
So I pass on
And let you fall behind.        5
I too am blind.
And you, my little friend of the gay dress!
In a swift moment of encountered eyes
I have touched your hand and kissed your wistfulness
And looked with you upon eternities;        10
And I know that neither the powder on your nose,
Nor the amazing things you wear upon your feet,
Can alter the gentleness my spirit owes
To vision of you, hurrying down the street.
I know you. You are one of those who fear
The certain end of their uncertainties;
Who, never having had possession here,
Still seek it in such transient things as these
Bright windows looking into gaudy places
Where there are wine-lists and long bills of fare,        20
And leaning girls with splendid shoulders bare,
And intimate eyes, playing with passionate faces.
In the concert hall
You are the musician
I the listener.        25
Here your fingers touch no bow,
Make no music for me.
We pass one another
I do not marvel so that you can wear
A flower in your tailored button-hole,
As that the flower does not perish there
In the Winter of your soul.
When you have passed and other eyes
Have found me with a new surprise,        35
I know I shall not call to mind
The colored hat you wore, the kind
Of dress nor anything so sure.
Only your laughter will endure
And come to me on other trips        40
Down other streets, from other lips.

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