On The Plaza

One August day I sat beside A café window open wide To let the shower-fresh ened air Blow in across the Plaza, where In golden pomp against the dark Green leafy background of the Park, St. Gaudens' hero, gaunt and grim, Rides on with Victory leading him. The wet, black asphalt seemed to hold In every hollow pools of gold, And clouds of gold and pink and gray 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, 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, Alive and modern and superb, Crossed from the circle of the curb. We sat there watching people pass, Clinking the ice against the glass And talking idly—books or art, 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, Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay In spite of the dull-stiflin g day, Three street-music ians came. The man, With hair and beard as black as Pan, Strolled on one side with lordly grace, 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 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 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 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 of discontent, 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, A simple heiress of the earth And all its joys by happy birth, Beneficent as breeze or dew, And fresh as though the world were new And toil and grief were not. How rare A personality was there!