Of Hartford in a Purple Light
A long time you have been making the trip
From Havre to Hartford, Master Soleil,
Bringing the lights of Norway and all that.
A long time the ocean has come with you,
Shaking the water off, like a poodle,
That splatters incessant thousands of drops,
Each drop a petty tricolor. For this,
The aunts in Pasadena, remembering,
Abhor the plaster of the western horses,
Souvenirs of museums. But, Master, there are
Lights masculine and lights feminine.
What is this purple, this parasol,
This stage-light of the Opera?
It is like a region full of intonings.
It is Hartford seen in a purple light.
A moment ago, light masculine,
Working, with big hands, on the town,
Arranging its heroic attitudes.
But now as in an amour of women
Purple sets purple round. Look, Master,
See the river, the railroad, the cathedral…
When male light fell on the naked back
Of the town, the river, the railroad were clear.
Now, every muscle slops away.
Hi! Whisk it, poodle, flick the spray
Of the ocean, ever-freshening,
On the irised hunks, the stone bouquet.
