Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The ForeignerAmy Lowell
H
My back’s to this tree,
For you’re nothing so nice
That the hind-side of me
Would escape your assault.
Come on now, all three!
Rapier at point,
And a wrist which whirls round
Like a circular joint.
A spatter of blood, man!
That’s just to anoint
’Tis a pity the silk
Of your waistcoat is stained.
Why! Your heart’s full of milk,
And so full, it spills over!
I’m not of your ilk.
At my old-fashioned hose,
At the cut of my hair,
At the length of my nose.
To carve it to pattern
I think you propose.
But my nose and my sword
Are proving themselves
In quite perfect accord.
I grieve to have spotted
Your shirt. On my word!
That blade’s not a stick
To slash right and left,
And my skull is too thick
To be cleft with such cuffs
Of a sword. Now a lick
What a pretty, red line!
Tell the taverns that scar
Was an honor. Don’t whine
That a stranger has marked you.
The tree’s there, You Swine!
At the back, while your friends
Made a little diversion
In front? So it ends,
With your sword clattering down
On the ground. ’Tis amends
Reception of me,
A foreigner, landed
From over the sea.
Your welcome was fervent,
I think you’ll agree.
With gold, nor my hair
Oiled and scented; my jacket’s
Not satin, I wear
Corded breeches, wide hats,
And I make people stare!
Is the heart of a man,
And my thoughts cannot twirl
In the limited span
’Twixt my head and my heels,
As some other men’s can.
Than the shape of my boots,
And my interests range
From the sky, to the roots
Of this dung-hill you live in,
You half-rotted shoots
Here’s at you, once more.
You Apes! You Jack-fools!
You can show me the door,
And jeer at my ways,
But you’re pinked to the core.
I will prick my name in
With the front of my steel,
And your lily-white skin
Shall be printed with me.
For I’ve come here to win!