As he, defeated, dying, The distant strains of triumph Emily Dickinson I TASTE A LIQUOR NEVER BREWED1 I taste a liquor never brewed, Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, When landlords turn the drunken bee When butterflies renounce their drams, Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, AUTUMN TO MY MOTHER - Emily Dickinson How memory cuts away the years, 1 Copyright by Little, Brown and Company. Of autumn days, brisk and busy; There was our back-yard, So plain and stripped of green, With even the weeds carefully pulled away From the crooked red bricks that made the walk, Autumn and dead leaves burning in the sharp air. I shall not forget them: Great jars laden with the raw green of pickles, Standing in a solemn row across the back of the porch, And in the very centre of the yard, You, tending the great catsup kettle of gleaming copper, Where fat, red tomatoes bobbed up and down Like jolly monks in a drunken dance. And there were bland banks of cabbages that came by the wagon-load, Soon to be cut into delicate ribbons Only to be crushed by the heavy, wooden stompers. And after, there were grapes that hid their brightness under a grey dust, Then gushed thrilling, purple blood over the fire; And enamelled crab-apples that tricked with their fra grance But were bitter to taste. And there were spicy plums and ill-shaped quinces, And long string beans floating in pans of clear water And you moved among these mysteries, I like to think of you in your years of power - Jean Starr Untermeyer HIGH-TIDE I edged back against the night. The sea growled assault on the wave-bitten shore. And the breakers, Like young and impatient hounds, Sprang with rough joy on the shrinking sand. Sprang but were drawn back slowly With a long, relentless pull, Whimpering, into the dark. Then I saw who held them captive; And I saw how they were bound With a broad and quivering leash of light, Held by the moon, As, calm and unsmiling, She walked the deep fields of the sky. -Jean Starr Untermeyer OUTWITTED He drew a circle that shut me out- But Love and I had wit to win: We drew a circle that took him in. Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . A white moth flew. Why am I grown So cold? Adelaide Crapsey ON SEEING WEATHER-BEATEN TREES Is it as plainly in our living shown, By slant and twist, which way the wind hath blown? Adelaide Crapsey MINIVER CHEEVY Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons. Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing. Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors. Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant. Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one. |