And puddles
And bits of jet--
And here and there a diamond...

But you do not yet see me,
Who am a torch blown along the wind,
Flickering to a spark
But never out.

BABEL

Oh, God did cunningly, there at Babel--
Not mere tongues dividing, but soul from soul,
So that never again should men be able
To fashion one infinite, towering whole.

THE FIDDLER

In a little Hungarian cafe
Men and women are drinking
Yellow wine in tall goblets.

Through the milky haze of the smoke,
The fiddler, under-sized, blond,
Leans to his violin
As to the breast of a woman.
Red hair kindles to fire
On the black of his coat-sleeve,
Where his white thin hand
Trembles and dives,