It surely is a scalawag
A-scamping down the page.
A pretty little May-wind
The 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 Solomon
Would show a sober face:—
And then again Pavlova
To set our spirits singing,
The snowy-swan bacchante
All glamour, glee and grace.
Some folks can see it plain.Look, you may catch a glint of light,A sparkle through the pane,Showing the place is brighter stillWithin, though bright without.There, at a cosy open fireStrange babes are grouped about.The children of the wind and tide–The urchins of the sky,Drying their wings from storms and thingsSo they again can fly.
From many morning-gloriesThat in an hour will fade,From many pansy budsGathered in the shade,From lily of the valleyAnd dandelion buds,From fiery poppy-budsAre the Wings of the Morning made.The Indian Girl Who Made ThemThese, the Wings of the Morning,An Indian Maiden wove,Intertwining subtilelyWands from a willow groveBeside the Sangamon —Rude stream of Dreamland Town.She bound them…
Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me,Fly by my path till you have made me whole!
‘We have buried him now,’ thought your foes, and in secret rejoiced.They made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred unvoiced.They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you, day after day.Now you were ended. They praised you … and laid you away.The others, that mourned you in silence and terror and…
And mad exotic flowersIn Illinois.Where ragged ditches ranNow springs of Heaven beganCelestial drink for manIn Illinois.There stood beside the townBeneath its incense-crownAn angel and a clownIn Illinois.He was as Clowns are:She was snow and starWith eyes that looked afarIn Illinois.I asked, ‘How came this placeOf antique Asian graceAmid our callow raceIn Illinois?’Said Clown and Angel…
Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers,Hearths that will recreate the breed called man.
