in Just-

    spring when the world is mud-

    luscious the little

    lame balloonman

    whistles far and wee

    and eddieandbill come by Hart Crane

    We make our meek adjustments，

    Contented with such random consolations

    As the wind deposits

    In slithered and too ample pockets.

    For we can still love the world， who find

    A famished kitten on the step， and know

    Recesses for it from the fury of the street，

    Or warm torn elbow coverts.

    We will sidestep， and to the final smirk

    Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb

    That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us，

    Facing the dull squint with what innocence

    And what surprise！

    And yet these fine collapses are not lies

    More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane；

    Our obsequies are， in a way， no enterprise.

    We can evade you， and all else but the heart：

    What blame to us if the heart live on.

    The game enforces smirks； but we have seen

    The moon in lonely alleys make

    A grail of laughter of an empty ash can，

    And through all sound of gaiety and quest

    Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.