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.

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;

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.

III

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,

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.

Here your fingers touch no bow,

Make no music for me.

We pass one another

Silently.

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,

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

Down other streets, from other lips.