Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Oakland Pier: 1918H. L. Davis
I
Which burnt in the engine smoke like a coal, and colored
The men’s faces red, so they seemed inflamed with excitement.
Sometimes all the engines would charge near me, with a noise
Which shook the orange-stand there, moved the piles of dark-red oranges.
Half asleep I heard the water of the bay; and a man’s voice:
“I remember, in China, when this army was there,
Eighteen years ago, a Captain Abel was worse.
He did not die, either, but went home as you are going.”
On some subject he has thought about: “I was no recruit then;
I have soldiered for twenty-nine years, in every country.
That is longer than you are old. You’ll go home, and be like
That man with the oranges. Marry, buy land, do well,
And I say nothing: but do not tell me of soldiering.
Talk of hog-killing, farmer. I am old now,
And still quicker than your people.”
“Yes, you are a sergeant,
You have better treatment. It is all officers with you.
You have soldiered twenty-nine years: they consider you more.
What do you know of my people? They are quick too—
What is this to talk about now? You are too old;
And I shall be home in two days, as good as any officer.”
Or flying in the dark somewhere; and when they ceased crying and turned
Back into the bay, their wings sounded like leaves
Blowing from poplar trees down a road.
I thought: “Only gulls;
There are the engines, the red-faced men; this is Oakland Pier.
I am tired now, shall I ever be sorry of the quietness
Of the roads in light snow, the thin grass covered and cold?”