ISSUE: Autumn 1944
I, Post Exchange
No roses in their visors thrust,
Nor ribbons from their lances stream,
Jeb Stuart’s golden sash is dust,
And Sweeney by a juke-box dreams.
As knights in dirty armor range To rifle in bright corridors The treasure chests of Post Exchange And borrow songs from other wars.
What matter if the boats have sailed For darkened shores if they drink deep Their cup that fails as Milton failed,
At ten go soberly to sleep.
II. U.
S.
O.
Dance
At dusk the shadow of frayed plumes,
Incredulous, investigates Intrusively in grim ball rooms A soviet of celibates,
Observing shy cosmopolites.
Sees Ariel with bitter laugh Unfurling in sardonic rites Bright banners on a shattered staff,
Offers forgotten fealty
To Dutch-boy in jump boots and maid
As trumpets play a rhapsody
In atavistic serenade;
Duennas from the D.
A.
R.
Watch Borneo and Juliet In barricade bv soda-bar Perform a wanton minuet.
