POMEGRANATES
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.