He bounded and enclosed it
With angles thus and so.
His set of solemn greybeards
Nodded and argued much
Of arc and circumference,
Diameter and such.
A silent child stood by them
From morning until noon
Because they drew such charming
Round pictures of the moon.
Similar Posts
Your pen needs but a ruffle
It surely is a scalawagA-scamping down the page.A pretty little May-windThe morning buds uncurling.And then the white sweet Russian,The dancer of the age.Your pen’s the Queen of Sheba,Such serious questions bringing,That merry rascal SolomonWould show a sober face:—And then again PavlovaTo set our spirits singing,The snowy-swan bacchanteAll glamour, glee and grace.
They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows?
They say one king is slack and sick of mind,A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play.Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place?Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world’s bane?Their place of maudlin, slavering conferenceTill every far-off farmstead goes insane?
Are these your presences, my clan from Heaven?
Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me,Fly by my path till you have made me whole!
The whole world on a raft! A King is here,
Is it his deacon-beard, or old bald pateThat makes the band upon his whims to wait?Loot and mud-honey have his soul defiled.Quack, pig, and priest, he drives camp-meetings wildUntil they shower their pennies like spring rainThat he may preach upon the Spanish main.What landlord, lawyer, voodoo-man has yetA better native right to make men sweat?The…
Twelve snails went walking after night.
Then stop and bug their eyesAnd blow.Some folks . . . are . . . deadly . . . slow.Twelve snails went walking yestereve,Led by their fat old king.They were so dull their princeling hadNo sceptre, robe or ring—Only a paper cap to wearWhen nightly journeying.This king-snail said: ‘I feel a thoughtWithin. . . ….
I. THE VOICE OF THE MAN IMPATIENT WITH VISIONS AND UTOPIAS
As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells,O, scribes who dare forget how wild we areHow human breasts adore alarum bells.You house us in a hive of prigs and saintsCommunal, frugal, clean and chaste by law.I’d rather brood in bloody ElsinoreOr be Lear’s fool, straw-crowned amid the straw.Promise us all our share in AgincourtSay…