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
In this, the City of my Discontent,
‘Romance, Romance — is here. No Hindu townIs quite so strange. No Citadel of BrassBy Sinbad found, held half such love and hate;No picture-palace in a picture-bookSuch webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!’In this, the City of my Discontent,Down from the sky, up from the smoking deepWild legends new and old burn round my…
The moon is now an opening flower,
The moon is now a silver rose;Her pollen is the dew.Her pollen is the mist that swingsAcross her face of dreams:Her pollen is the April rain,Filling the April streams.Her pollen is eternal life,Endless ambrosial foam.It feeds the swarming stars and fillsTheir hearts with honeycomb.The earth is but a passion-flowerWith blood upon his crown.And what shall…
I asked her, ‘Is Aladdin’s lamp
‘Look into your heart,’ she said,‘Aladdin’s lamp is there.’She took my heart with glowing hands.It burned to dust and airAnd smoke and rolling thistledownBlowing everywhere.‘Follow the thistledown,’ she said,‘Till doomsday, if you dare,Over the hills and far away.Aladdin’s lamp is there.’
Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace,
And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend,Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes?Good comrade and philosopher and prince,Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind,Dare they to move against your pride benign,Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind?But what can Europe say, when in your nameThe throats are cut, the…
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!
This section is a Christmas tree:
Behold the blocks, the Noah’s arks,The popguns painted red and blue.No solemn pine-cone forest-fruit,But silver horns and candy sacksAnd many little tinsel heartsAnd cherubs pink, and jumping-jacks.For every child a gift, I hope.The doll upon the topmost boughIs mine. But all the rest are yours.And I will light the candles now.