I HAVE not written, reader,
That you may read. . . .
They sit in rows in the bare school-room
Reading.
Throwing rocks at windows is better,
And oh the tortoise-shell cat with the can tied on!
I would rather be a can-tier
Than a writer for readers.
I have written, reader,
For abstruse reasons.
Gold in the mine . . .
Black water seeping into tunnels . . .
A plank breaks, and the roof falls . . .
Three men suffocated.
The wife of one now works in a laundry;
The wife of another has married a fat man;
I forget about the third.
EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 31
THE night is growing deep with snow
O put your hand in mine,
While the mirthful secrets that we know
Bloom in the fire-shine—
Flakes falling with an undertow
Of delicate design.
Hushed are the courts where ladies went
Unquestioning to quaff
Goblets of liquid firmament—
Thank God that we can laugh!
Hushed are the plains where Asia poured
The blood of peacock kings—
But we can echo, thank the Lord,
What the China teapot sings:
Nothing bereaves
The eternal tune
Of little crisp leaves
Green in the moon.
The night is deeper still with snow . . .
O let us never stir
From the mirthful secrets that we know
Of old diameter!
Eve laughed at Adam long ago,
And Adam laughed at her.
ANNE KNISH
Opus 150
SOUNDS, pure sounds—
Nothing—
Vibrancies of the air—
And yet—