10
Transitional Poem
That sluggishly yaw and bend,Fat strings of barges drawnBy a tug they have never seenAnd never will comprehend?"
I sit in a wood and stareUp at untroubled branchesLocked together and staunch asThough girders of the air:And think, the first wind risingWill crack that intricate crownAnd let the daylight down.But there is naught surprisingCan explode the single mind:—Let figs from thistles fallOr stars from their pedestal,This architecture will stand.
2
Come, soul, let us not fightLike cynical ChineeBeneath umbrella, nor wish to tradeUpon neutrality.For the mind must cope withAll elements or none—Bask in dust along with weevils,Or criticise the sun.
