Skip to main content


ISSUE:  Winter 1946

Lord, I have loved your sky,
Be it said against or for me,
Have loved it clear and high,
Or low and stormy;

Till I have reeled and stumbled
From looking up too much,
And fallen and been humbled
To wear a crutch.

My love for every Heaven
O’er which you, Lord, have lorded,
From number One to Seven
Should be rewarded.

I should not dare to hope
That when I am translated
My scalp will in the cope
Be constellated.

But if that seems to tend
To my undue renown,
At least you ought to send
Me up, not down.


This question is for testing whether or not you are a human visitor and to prevent automated spam submissions.

Recommended Reading