Why Sit Alone Little Poet?
Why rest your feet alone timid poet?
The sun does burn harsh your small fantasies.
Kill them quick, darling, do be quaint and quit,
Maybe you have. Those feeble diseases
Which bewitch your mind, your soft supple fingers.
Does shade not keep them deep cool as before?
Shake not your darling bends and breaks, bearers
Of Bangled wrists and bead bracelets. They bore
The gents around town.
Lift yourself up, don’t cry
Your two fine friendly legs stop spirits sore
And your eyes which see the plain paved prairie
Betray thee, with those barred boards of your moor.
As long as paths do wind, and grass does gleam
Follow the river and forget the stream.
