Poems for Monday, May 16

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132

I bring an unaccustomed wine
To lips long parching
Next to mine,
And summon them to drink;

Crackling with fever, they Essay,
I turn my brimming eyes away,
And come next hour to look.

The hands still hug the tardy glass --
The lips I would have cooled, alas --
Are so superfluous Cold --

I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould --

Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak --

And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake --

If, haply, any say to me
"Unto the little, unto me,"
When I at last awake.



136

Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so --

And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there --

Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go --

And later, in August it may be --
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!


333

The Grass so little has to do --
A Sphere of simple Green --
With only Butterflies to brood
And Bees to entertain --

And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Breezes fetch along --
And hold the Sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything --

And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls --
And make itself so fine
A Duchess were too common
For such a noticing --

And even when it dies -- to pass
In Odors so divine --
Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep --
Or Spikenards, perishing --

And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell --
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay –

479

She dealt her pretty words like Blades --
How glittering they shone --
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone --

She never deemed -- she hurt --
That -- is not Steel's Affair --
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh --
How ill the Creatures bear --

To Ache is human -- not polite --
The Film upon the eye
Mortality's old Custom --
Just locking up -- to Die


531

We dream -- it is good we are dreaming --
It would hurt us -- were we awake --
But since it is playing -- kill us,
And we are playing -- shriek --

What harm? Men die -- externally --
It is a truth -- of Blood --
But we -- are dying in Drama --
And Drama -- is never dead --

Cautious -- We jar each other --
And either -- open the eyes --
Lest the Phantasm -- prove the Mistake --
And the livid Surprise

Cool us to Shafts of Granite --
With just an Age -- and Name --
And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian --
It's prudenter -- to dream --

IN THE BACKYARD

When it didn’t think I was looking
I caught the oak tree
twitching its limbs,
trying to shake off the chimes.


Trees prefer, like all of us
the sound of their own leaves.

- Tom Miner