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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 middayNor the bright blackness of starless midnightNor 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 shroudFor one clear, soul-shaking vision.Over the sharp reality of things the mists return,And we go down the foggy wayTo its foggy goal.
II.Across in the subway they sat,A mother and father, two sons and a daughter.The incurious sitters speculated idlyOn the woman's cheap sailor and sheer waist,Her new glossed slippers. . . .

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