(She was really a raving beauty in her day.
With Mary Pickford curls in clouds and whirls.)
She was trying to think of something nice to say,
So she pointed to a page by her fellow star and sage,
And said: ‘I wish that I could write that way!’
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The Moon’s the North Wind’s cooky.
Until there’s but a rim of scrapsThat crumble all away.The South Wind is a baker.He kneads clouds in his den,And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedyNorth . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!
The moon is but a candle-glow
The starry space, a castle hall:And Earth, the children’s room,Where all night long the old trees standTo watch the streams asleep:Grandmothers guarding trundle-beds:Good shepherds guarding sheep.
(What the Mendicant Said )
Who walks his cell, the sky.His strength is that of heaven-vowed menWho all life’s flames defy.They turn to stars or shadows,They go like snow or dew—Leaving behind no sorrow—Only the arching blue.
(A Negro Sermon.)
She drove him out when he would not drink.Round the house there were men in waitAsleep in rows by the Gaza gate.But the Holy Spirit was in this man.Like a gentle wind he crept and ran.(‘It is midnight,’ said the big town clock.)He lifted the gates up, post and lock.The hole in the wall was…
[How different people and different animals look upon the moon: showing that each creature finds in it his own mood and disposition]
The moon’s a peck of corn. It liesHeaped up for me to eat.I wish that I might climb the pathAnd taste that supper sweet.Men feed me straw and scanty grainAnd beat me till I’m sore.Some day I’ll break the halter-ropeAnd smash the stable-door,Run down the street and mount the hillJust as the corn appears.I’ve seen…
O dandelion, rich and haughty,
Each day is coronation time,You have no humble hours.I like to see you bring a troopTo beat the blue-grass spears,To scorn the lawn-mower that would beLike fate’s triumphant shears,Your yellow heads are cut away,It seems your reign is o’er.By noon you raise a sea of starsMore golden than before.