It must be the puritan in me that responds to the challenge to purify the language of the tribe. Presumably even the lowliest poet can assist in this job, acting like a small auxiliary filter in the water supply system.
Huntsman, What Quarry? By Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Harper and Brothers. $2.00. Solitude. By V. Sackville-Wcst. New York: Douhleday, Doran and Company. $1.75. Corn. By Paul Engle. New York: Doubleday, Doran and Company. $2.00.
If there is [...]
Here might a man, childlike, unbind his boots,
Go with bared feet, and sometimes, pausing, stand To feel with the foot's depth the years of mold Through which the buried roots, the living roots Climb down to levels more profoundly old—
Eons of rock [...]
THREE PASTORALS IN WHITESolstice
Do not believe, do not believe Your day-dulled eyes on this charmed night.
The moon has colors to deceive You—cream, crystal, and moonstone-white.
Do not believe that luminous shadow Is only, only what by day Men ca [...]
The man you are, the boy you were
Have sometimes been together here
Like elder brother and younger brother
Of whom we say How like each other.
The boy you were, the man you are
Though far apart seemed not so far,
Seemed like a son and father ra [...]
Go far enough away from anything
In time or space (and space is only time)
And you have peace.
The clashes of the stars
Do not disturb the starlit night of earth.
And earthly wars if they are old enough
Make restful reading to a man in bed.
I watch an old man working in his garden
Dealing life to plant and death to weed.
Of one he saves, of one destroys the seed.
He knows the weeds and not one will he pardon.
He bids the pea vines bloom and they obey.
He teaches them to climb.