EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 62
THREE little creatures gloomed across the floor
And stood profound in front of me,
And one was Faith, and one was Hope,
And one was Charity.
Faith looked for what it could not find,
Hope looked for what was lost,
(Love looked and looked but Love was blind),
Charity's eyes were crossed.
Then with a leap a single shape,
With beauty on its chin,
Brandished a little screaming ape . . .
And each one, like a pin,
Fell to a pattern on the rug
As flat as they could be—
And died there comfortable and snug,
Faith, Hope and Charity.
That shape, it was my shining soul
Bludgeoning every sham . . .
O little ape, be glad that I
Can be the thing I am!
ANNE KNISH
Opus 131
I AM weary of salmon dawns
And of cinnamon sunsets;
Silver-grey and iron-grey
Of winter dusk and morn
Torture me; and in the amethystine shadows
Of snow, and in the mauve of curving clouds
Some poison has dwelling.
Ivory on a fan of Venice,
Black-pearl of a bowl of Japan,
Prismatic lustres of Phoenician glass,
Fawn-tinged embroideries from looms of Bagdad,
The green of ancient bronze, cinereous tinge
Of iron gods,—
These, and the saffron of old cerements,
Violet wine,
Zebra-striped onyx,
Are to me like the narrow walls of home
To the land-locked sailor.