  IN city streets the blue dusk falls. The lights prick out. Folks hurry by. Buses are thronged. Sleek motors flash. “Extra—ship sunk!” the newsboys cry. Before a little shop I pause Where Pietro sells, strange, precious fruit, Great globes of scarlet, heaps of gold Barbaric as a pirate’s loot. I see pomegranates glowing there, And I forget the strident night, I hear the song of Solomon— “Return, return, O Shulamite. Thy lips are like a scarlet thread, O prince’s daughter, thou art fair; Thy garments are perfumed with myrrh, With aloes drips thy braided hair.” Dim fragrant gardens close me in, The city as a dream has gone, And from the South I feel the winds Blow soft from cedared Lebanon. |
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