Above the place where children play
A window opens, far away,
For God to hear the happy noise
Made by His little girls and boys.

First day in your house, The
You more than welcome your guest.
You roast him some fish, you brew him some beer,
You offer him all that is best.

The second day still
You are willing to give
Some milk and some bread,
And so let him live.

On the third day, the food
Becomes somewhat rare—
He may have some rice,
If with you he will share.

On the fourth day, you send him
Out into the fields;
Then after a little bite,
You make him shine up your shields.

The fifth day, your guest
Is as thin as a cricket.

Above the graves of countless millions slain
The people cry: " By their grim sacrifice —
Whose lives, free-given, we cannot despise —
We vow, in tears: It shall not be again! "

Above the graves of countless millions slain
The people cry: " By their grim sacrifice —
Whose lives, free-given, we cannot despise —
We vow, in tears: It shall not be again! "

I

Babbitt, your tribe is passing away.
This is the end of your infamous day.
The Virginians are coming again.
With your neat little safety-vault boxes,
With your faces like geese and foxes,
You
Short-legged, short-armed, short-minded men,
Your short-sighted days are over,
Your habits of strutting through clover,

Your movie-thugs, killing off souls and dreams,
Your magazines, drying up healing streams,
Your newspapers, blasting truth and splendor,
Your shysters, ruining progress and glory,

A Song with Hieroglyphs

Celestial flowers spring up in Glacier Park.
Invisible to all but faithful eyes.
Those who are wise
See each flower springing with its aureole.
Every dawning brings one more surprise,
Shining in heaven between them and the sun,
Or nodding where the cold fountains run,
Or hovering over granite, shale, and snow,
The ghostly flowers like rainbows come and go.

I

These are the flowers: Lettuce for the Deer,
The Bee's Book, The Clouds Appear,
The Angel's Puff Ball, The Chipmunk's Big Salt Cellar,

About the little chambers of my heart
Friends have been coming--going--many a year.
The doors stand open there.
Some, lightly stepping, enter; some depart.

Freely they come and freely go, at will.
The walls give back their laughter; all day long
They fill the house with song.
One door alone is shut, one chamber still.

. . . about the cool water
the wind sounds through sprays
of apple, and from the quivering leaves
slumber pours down . . .

A BOUT the august and ancient Square ,
Cries the wild wind; and through the air,
The blue night air, blows keen and chill:
Else, all the night sleeps, all is still.
Now, the lone Square is blind with gloom:
Now, on that clustering chestnut bloom,
A cloudy moonlight plays, and falls
In glory upon Bodley's walls:
Now, wildlier yet, while moonlight pales,
Storm the tumultuary gales.
O rare divinity of Night!
Season of undisturbed delight:
Glad interspace of day and day!
Without, an world of winds at play:

I am useless.
What I do is nothing,
What I think has no savour.
There is an almanac between the windows:
It is of the year when I was born.

My fellows call to me to join them,
They shout for me,
Passing the house in a great wind of vermilion banners.
They are fresh and fulminant,
They are indecent and strut with the thought of it,
They laugh, and curse, and brawl,
And cheer a holocaust of " Who comes firsts! " at the iron fronts of the houses at the two edges of the street.

About an excavation
a flock of bright red lanterns