Tivoli

JOHN DOS PASSOS

THE ropes of the litter creak and groan

As the heavens turn down the steep path,

Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet.

But the Roman poet lies back confident

On his magenta cushions and mattresses,

Thinks of Greek bronzes

At the sight of the straining backs of his slaves.

The slaves' breasts shine with sweat,

And they draw deep breaths of the cooler air

As they lurch through .tunnel after tunnel of leaves,

Leaves that tremulously dance In the roar of the glen.

At last, where the spray swirls like smoke,

And the river roars in a cauldron of green,

The poet feels his fat arms quiver

And his eyes and ears drowned and exalted

In the reverberance of the fall.

The ropes of the litter creak and groan,

The embroidered curtains, moist with spray,

Flutter in the poet's face;

Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet

As the slaves strain up the path again,

And the Roman poet lies back confident

Among silk cushions of gold and magenta,

His hands clasped across his mountainous belly,

Thinking of the sibyl and fate,

And gorgeous and garlanded death, Mouthing hexameters.

And I, my belly full and burning as the sun,

With the good white wine of the Alban hills,

Stumble down the path

Into the cool green and the roar,

And I wonder, and am abashed . . .

John Dos Passos, the author of "Three Soldiers"—a novel of the American army—is soon to have a volume of poems published by Doran under the title of "A Pushcart at the Curb".