O tree-like Spring, O blossomy days,
To sway as long as the locust sways!
EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 14
BESIDE the brink of dream
I had put out my willow-roots and leaves
As by a stream
Too narrow for the invading greaves
Of Rome in her trireme . . .
Then you came—like a scream
Of beeves.
ANNE KNISH
Opus 80
OH my little house of glass!
How carefully
I have planted shrubbery
To plume before your transparency.
Light is too amorous of you,
Transfusing through and through
Your panes with an effulgence never new.
Sometimes
I am terribly tempted
To throw the stones myself.
EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 1
THEY enter with long trailing of shadowy cloth,
And each with one hand praying in the air,
And the softness of their garments is the grayness of a moth—
The lost and broken night-moth of despair.