And if no Hindu he can get,
The lion-family is upset.
He cuffs his wife and bites her ears
Till she is nearly moved to tears.
Then some explorer finds the den
And all is family peace again.
Similar Posts
Written to Miss Alice L. F. Fitzgerald, Edith Cavell memorial nurse, going to the front.
To cure the wide world, stricken sore,Bleeding at the breast and head,Tearing at its wounds once more.Your white hand is a prophecy,A living hope that Christ shall comeAnd make the nations merciful,Hating the bayonet and drum.Each desperate burning brain you soothe,Or ghastly broken frame you bind,Brings one day nearer our bright goal,The love-alliance of mankind.
Tolstoi is plowing yet. When the smoke-clouds break,
There he toils for the Kingdom of Heaven’s sake.Ah, he is taller than clouds of the little earth.Only the congress of planets is over him,And the arching path where new sweet stars have birth.Wearing his peasant dress, his head bent low,Tolstoi, that angel of Peace, is plowing yet;Forward, across the field, his horses go.
(To Edgar Lee Masters, with great respect)
Is our ancestral hall.Agate is the dome,Cornelian the wall.Ghouls are in the cellar,But fays upon the stairs.And here lived old King Silver Dreams,Always at his prayers.Here lived gray Queen Silver Dreams,Always signing psalms,And haughty Grandma Silver Dreams,Throned with folded palms.Here played cousin Alice.Her soul was best of all.And every fairy loved her,In our ancestral hall.Alice…
Ah, she was music in herself,
She sang, she sang from finger tips,From every tremble of her dress.I saw sweet haunting harmony,An ecstasy, an ecstasy,In that strange curling of her lips,That happy curling of her lips.And quivering with melodyThose eyes I saw, that tossing head.And so I saw what music was,Tho’ still accursed with ears of lead.
The cornfields rise above mankind,
Each season not ashamed to beMagnificently decked for you.What right have you to call them yours,And in brute lust of riches burnWithout some radiant penance wrought,Some beautiful, devout return?
When I see a young tree
With white leavesAnd white budsBarely tipped with green,In the April weather,In the weeping sunshine—Then I see my lady,My democratic queen,Standing free and equalWith the youngest woodland saplingSwaying, singing in the wind,Delicate and white:Soul so near to blossom,Fragile, strong as death;A kiss from far-off Eden,A flash of Judgment’s trumpet—April’s breath.