A Pushcart at the Curb Part 2

Her skin is browner than the tone of cellos, flushes like with pomegranate juice.

... The moist laden air of a garden in Granada, spice of leaves bruised by the sun; she sits in a dress of crimson brocade dark as blood under the white moon and watches the ripples spread in the gurgling fountain; her lashes curve to her cheeks as she stares wide-eyed lips drawn against the teeth and trembling; gravel crunches down the path; brown in a crimson swirl she stands with full lips head tilted back ... O her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s against my panting breast.

Clapping. Genteel noise of Paris hats and beards that tilt this way and that.

Her face lost in infinities of glittering chandeliers.

_Ritz_

XIII

There's a sound of drums and trumpets above the rumble of the street.

(Run run run to see the soldiers.) All alike all abreast keeping time to the regimented swirl of the glittering bra.s.s band.

The cafe waiters are craning at the door the girl in the gloveshop is nose against the gla.s.s.

O the glitter of the bra.s.s and the flutter of the plumes and the tramp of the uniform feet!

Run run run to see the soldiers.

The boy with a tray of pastries on his head is walking fast, keeping time; his white and yellow cakes are trembling in the sun his cheeks are redder and his bluestriped tunic streams as he marches to the rum tum of the drums.

Run run run to see the soldiers.

The milkman with his pony slung with silvery metal jars schoolboys with their packs of books clerks in stiff white collars old men in cloaks try to regiment their feet to the glittering bra.s.s beat.

Run run run to see the soldiers.

_Puerta del Sol_

XIV

Night of clouds terror of their flight across the moon.

Over the long still plains blows a wind out of the north; a laden wind out of the north rattles the leaves of the liveoaks menacingly and loud.

Black as old blood on the cold plain close throngs spread to beyond lead horizons swaying shrouded crowds and their rustle in the knife-keen wind is like the dry death-rattle of the winter gra.s.s.

(Like mouldered shrouds the clouds fall from the crumbling skull of the dead moon.)

Huge, of grinning bra.s.s steaming with fresh stains their G.o.d gapes with smudged expectant gums above the plain.

Flicker through the flames of the wide maw rigid square bodies of men opulence of childbearing women slimness of young men, and girls with small curved b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

(Loud as musketry rattles the sudden laughter of the dead.)

Thicker hotter the blood drips from the cold bra.s.s lips.

Swift over grainless fields swift over sh.e.l.lplowed lands ever leaner swifter darker bay the hounds of the dead, before them drive the pale ones white limbs scarred and blackened laurel crushed in their cold fingers, the spark quenched in their glazed eyes.

Thicker hotter the blood drips from the avenging lips of the bra.s.s G.o.d; (and rattling loud as musketry the laughter of the unsated dead).

The clouds have blotted the haggard moon.

A harsh wind shrills from the cities of the north Ypres, Lille, Liege, Verdun, and from the tainted valleys the cross-scarred hills.

Over the long still plains the wind out of the north rattles the leaves of the liveoaks.

_Cuatro Caminos_

XV

The weazened old woman without teeth who s.h.i.+vers on the windy street corner displays her roasted chestnuts invitingly like marriageable daughters.

_Calle Atocha_

XVI NOCHEBUENA

The clattering streets are bright with booths lighted by balancing candleflames ranged with figures in painted clay, Virgins adoring and haloed bambinos, St. Joseph at his joiner's bench Judean shepherds and their sheep camels of the Eastern kings.

_Esta noche es noche buena nadie piensa a dormir._

The streets resound with dancing and chortle of tambourines, strong rhythm of dancing drumming of tambourines.

Flicker through the greenish lamplight of the clattering cobbled streets flushed faces of men women in mantillas children with dark wide eyes, teeth flas.h.i.+ng as they sing:

_La santa Virgen es en parto a las dos va desparir.

Esta noche es noche buena nadie piensa a dormir._

Beetred faces of women whose black mantillas have slipped from their sleek and gleaming hair, streaming faces of men.

With click of heels on the pavingstones boys in tunics are dancing eyes under long black lashes flash as they dance to the drum of tambourines beaten with elbow and palm.

A flock of girls comes running squealing down the street.

Boys and girls are dancing flushed and dripping dancing to the beat on drums and piping on flutes and jiggle of the long notes of accordions and the wild tune swirls and sweeps along the frosty streets, leaps above the dark stone houses out among the crackling stars.

_Esta noche es noche buena nadie piensa a dormir._

In the street a ragged boy too poor to own a tambourine slips off his shoes and beats them together to the drunken reeling time, dances on his naked feet.

_Esta noche es noche buena nadie piensa a dormir._

_Madrid_

XVII

The old strong towers the Moors built on the ruins of a Roman camp have sprung into spreading boistrous foam of daisies and alyssum flowers, and sprout of clover and veiling gra.s.s from out of the cracks in the tawny stones makes velvet soft the worn stairs and grooved walks where clanked the heels of the grave mailed knights who had driven and killed the darkskinned Moors, and where on silken knees their sons knelt on the nights of the full moon to vow strange deeds for their lady's grace.