OUT OF THE FOG
I.
To and fro in the heavy fog we walk,
All of us, all life through,
Brain fog . . . heart fog. . . .
And neither the blinding flare of midday
Nor the bright blackness of starless midnight
Nor books, nor the words we say and hear,
Can clear away the mistiness.
Numb, dozing, beast-like we trudge,
Dully aware of objects near,
Unable to pierce to the shining splendor around.
Until at last some inner storm of passion,
And the lightning tears wide the gray shroud
For one clear, soul-shaking vision.
Over the sharp reality of things the mists return,
And we go down the foggy way
To its foggy goal.
To and fro in the heavy fog we walk,
All of us, all life through,
Brain fog . . . heart fog. . . .
And neither the blinding flare of midday
Nor the bright blackness of starless midnight
Nor books, nor the words we say and hear,
Can clear away the mistiness.
Numb, dozing, beast-like we trudge,
Dully aware of objects near,
Unable to pierce to the shining splendor around.
Until at last some inner storm of passion,
And the lightning tears wide the gray shroud
For one clear, soul-shaking vision.
Over the sharp reality of things the mists return,
And we go down the foggy way
To its foggy goal.
II.
Across in the subway they sat,
A mother and father, two sons and a daughter.
The incurious sitters speculated idly
On the woman's cheap sailor and sheer waist,
Her new glossed slippers. . . .
Across in the subway they sat,
A mother and father, two sons and a daughter.
The incurious sitters speculated idly
On the woman's cheap sailor and sheer waist,
Her new glossed slippers. . . .
125
