Poems (Forrest)/Greetings

by Mabel Forrest

GREETINGS

If there should come to you, blown down the wind(Above the smoke and soot and stealthy catsThat ramble inwards on the dingy roofs,High-pitched child-voices in obscure backyardsAnd all this chorus of unlovely things)A breath of roses, as though Eastern jarsHad slipped their lashings on the donkey's back,Met a sly kick in falling, or crashed hardAgainst the stained steps of an ancient mosque:While filthy beggars whined and sniffed and scrapedAbout the wreckage, wondering if it heldAmid the shattered dragons of the delfA sugared sweetmeat rolled in cinnamon,Cursing the small white donkey, when they foundOnly the rose-leaves of a summer dead—If this scent comes to you o'er chimney pots,Blown weathercocks and half a million tiles,To tell of sleepy, dew-bathed carmine budsOr big round yellow blooms with petals proudFor just one day, night finding them grass-strewn,Oh, you will know 'twas I who laced the windWith an old dream of roses that we knew! And if at evening when the emerald starsHave made a jewel-mine of sea and sky,And you shall stir to the forgotten touchOf that fond hand that used to curl in yoursAnd hate to leave the man-grip of your palm;Then if your fingers seem to close in sleepAbout the ringless hand that loved too well,It is my phantom, passing through the airGhost fingers that are lonelier than yours!

If at the dawn, you wake to muffled cries,Hoarse chantings of the street and loud newsboysWho seem to think that Crime was made for this,Murder and suicide and bloody war,Especially designed for special sales!And raucous milkmen and insistent wheels,And all things city-smirched and foul and grey,No welcoming leaves a-peep o'er window-sillsAnd the sun worship of awakening trees—If there comes humming like a harp in boughs,Soft waves on pebbly beaches, or a breathRinging the golden bells of mountain flowers,Know it is I, whose heart keeps music stillAmong the broken strings you used to play!