78
P A RTISAN REVIEW
"How slowly time's lubricious feathers move;
0 when will the long, dallying day have done
And lend me leave to come unto my love?"
AS A PLANE TREE BY THE WATER
Darkness has called to darkness and disgrace
Elbows about our windows in this planned
Babel of Boston where the money talks
And multiplies the darkness of a land
Of preparation where the Virgin walks
And roses spiral her enamelled face
And die a coon's age on unwatered streets.
Our Lady of Babylon, go by, go by,
We were once the apples of your eye;
The flies are on the plane tree in the streets.
The flies, the flies, the flies of Babylon
Buzz in our ear-drums while the devil's long
Dirge of the people detonates the hour
To floating cities where
his
golden tongue
Enchants the gold-bricks of the Babel Tower
To raise tomorrow's city to the sun
That never sets upon these hell-fire streets
Of Boston, where the sunlight is a sword
Splitting the belfry in King's Chapel. Lord,
The flies are on the plane tree in the streets.
Flies strike the miraculous waters of the iced
Atlantic and the eyes of Bernadette
Who saw Our Lady standing in the cave
At Massabielle, saw her so squarely that
Her vision put out reason's eyes: the grave
Is open-mouthed and swallowed up in Christ.
0 walls of Jericho
!
And all the streets
To our Atlantic are singing: "Sing, Wall.
Sing for the exaltation of the King."
The flies are on the plane tree in the streets.
