SONNET: TREES ARE NOT SHIPS

There is no magic in a living tree,

And, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds:

My soul is seasick, and its only words

Murmur desire for things more like a sea.

In this dry landscape here there seems to be

No water, merely persons in large herds,

Who, by their long remarks, their arid girds,

Come from the Poetry Society.

What could be drier, where all things are dry?

What boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide?

Oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie,

Hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships,

Send them to sea with these folk nailed inside,

That I may have great sonnets on my lips!

Elinor Wylie

(With an air of admitting the tragic and all-important fact.)