Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
LakeEmanuel Carnevali
S
A poem to God beautiful.
The love a poor sick body held
(Sifted by the sift of a hundred nights of pain),
A poor sick body gave it all to you.
Has intoxicated me.
In front of my great eyes now
There is a mad blur of sunlight,
And the City spread out before me calling from a great curve:
“Come, enter, conquistador!”
Where the mist lies like Peace.
Saw death running over the shadow-laced ripples;
And turned around, as you threw water in my eyes,
And laughed at Death, as Death’s brother, the devil, would.
You slammed open the doors of the sky,
And there stood the tremendous sun.
I have come out of you,
A fresh-water Neptune;
And the water rang little bells
Trickling down
Along my flesh.
Lake, garden of the colors,
Sweet-breathing mouth of Chicago,
Words die in the fingers of a sick man,
As children dying on a poor father.
Take my promise, lake.