PENN TREATY PARK
Down by the wharf in old Penn Treaty Park
The trees are all a canopy of green—
The staunch policeboat Stokely, ancient craft,
Is purring with a gentle push of steam
That whispers in her valves. Along the pier
The water clucks and sags. Two river cops
Sit smoking pipes outside their small caboose,
Above them looms a tragic rusty bow,
The Roald Amundsen, Norwegian tanker,
She that caught fire last winter at Point Breeze
While loading oil. The river cops will tell you
How all the Schuylkill was a hell of flame
And ten men lost their lives. The good old Stokley
Dredged the river afterward for bodies.
At sunset time in old Penn Treaty Park
The children sprawl and play: the tawny light
Pours through the leafy chinks in sifted gold
And turns the middle-stream to level fire.
Then, after that red sunset comes the dusk,
The little park is steeped in living shadow,
And Cupid pairs the benches by the pier.
But there's one girl who always sits alone.
Coming at dark, she passes by the shaft
That marks the treaty ground of William Penn.
Too dusk for reading, yet how well she knows
The words carved in the stone: Unbroken Faith.
Mary, of Wildey street, had met Alf Larsen
Up at a picture show on East Girard.
Her father was a hard one: he said fiercely
No girl of his should run around with sailors,
