Eleanor, 15-July 17 Pompeii, Rome, Florence

July 17

POMPEII

I have walked in Pompeii before, I have strayed
In the streets where Glaucus was wont to go,
I have followed the steps of the captive maid,
As she groped for her way with gesture slow.

I have sat by lone, breathing the scent
Of the flowers that grew in her garden fair,
And followed the dark street her brother went
When someone slew him unaware.

I have fled from the mountains glowing wrath
When the ashes fell like lurid rain.
I have followed the crowds on the ocean path,
To be hustled in panic back again.

I have lived in Pompeii ages of time,
Till I knew where every by-path led.
But today, where the steps to the temple climb,
I put my feet in the low-worn tread.

And not till that moment, I knew with grief,
Not till then did I fully understand.
This is conviction. This is belief.
This is the print of the nails in the hand.

July 18

TO ROME AND TO FLORENCE

The time on the train isn’t wasted,
Nor lost are those hours of heat.
In those dreary long trips I have tasted,
Of human intelligence sweet.

When they urged that this journey be taken,
And I was reluctant to go,
My depression and gloom were not shaken,
By "Such interesting people you'll know."

My venture that put the last curse on,
For interesting minds don't appeal.
When I'm with an interesting person,
How frightfully stupid I feel.

Let me live with a moron or cretin,
In whose head not one brain I detect,
Then though no inspiration I'm getting,
I'm retaining my own self-respect.

But today, as the dusk slowly darkened,
And day faded out of the sky,
To interesting people I harkened,
Without being anxious to die.