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It Was All For Him

I strolled upon the Brooklyn Bridge one day,
Beneath the storm;
None but a lad in rags upon the way
I saw;–there on a bench he lay
Heedless of form.

He seemingly was reading what the Shower
Was publishing upon the Bridge and down the Bay;
Yet he was writing, writing at this hour,–
Writing in a careless sort of way.

Upon a pad he scribbled and as fast the rain
Retouched, effaced, corrected and revised.
Was he recording Nature's solemn strain,
Or sketching choristers therein disguised?

Whatever it be, I found myself quite by his side:
My nod and smile he pocketed and wrote again;
"Read me your drizzling stuff," I said, and he replies:
"I've written a check in payment for this shower of rain."

Maritime Poem

In the blue harbor of your eyes
Blow rains of melodious lights,
Dizzy suns and sails
Painting their voyage to endlessness.

In the blue harbor of your eyes
Is an open sea window,
And birds appear in the distance
Searching for islands still unborn.

In the blue harbor of your eyes
Snow falls in July.
Ships laden with turquoise
Spill over the sea and are not drowned.

In the blue harbor of your eyes
I run on the scattered rocks like a child
Breathing the fragrance of the sea
And return an exhausted bird.

In the blue harbor of your eyes
Stones sing in the night.
Who has hidden a thousand poems
In the closed book of your eyes?

If only, if only I were a sailor,
If only somebody'd give me a boat,
I would furl my sails each evening
In the blue harbor of your eyes.