POEM OF THE DAY

*The Earth-Child in the Grass*

*Katherine Mansfield*

In the very early morning 

Long before Dawn time 

I lay down in the paddock 

And listened to the cold song of the grass. 

Between my fingers the green blades, 

And the green blades pressed against my body. 

“Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?” 

Sang the grass. 

“Why does she weep on my bosom,

Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover?

Foolish little earth child! 

It is not yet time. 

One day I shall open my bosom 

And you shall slip in—but not weeping. 

Then in the early morning 

Long before Dawn time 

Your lover will lie in the paddock. 

Between his fingers the green blades 

And the green blades pressed against his body. . . 

My song shall not sound cold to him 

In my deep wave he will find the wave of your hair 

In my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses. 

Long and long he will lie there  . . . 

Laughing—not weeping.”

*This poem is in the public domain*

POEM OF THE DAY

Clouds

Anonymous

White sheep, white sheep,

On a blue hill,

When the wind stops,

You all stand still.

When the wind blows,

You walk away slow.

White sheep, white sheep,

Where do you go?

This poem is in the public domain.

POEM OF THE DAY

THE ARROW AND THE SONG 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

POEM OF THE DAY

Theme in Yellow

Carl Sandburg

I spot the hills 

With yellow balls in autumn. 

I light the prairie cornfields 

Orange and tawny gold clusters 

And I am called pumpkins. 

On the last of October 

When dusk is fallen 

Children join hands 

And circle round me 

Singing ghost songs 

And love to the harvest moon; 

I am a jack-o'-lantern 

With terrible teeth 

And the children know 

I am fooling.

This poem is in the public domain.

POEM OF THE DAY

On His Blindness 

John Milton 

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

POEM OF THE DAY