Transitional Poem
25
And have buried—it seems—that artOf minding one's own businessMagnanimously, for usThere's nothing but to recantAmbition, and be contentLike the poor child at playTo find a holidayIn the sticks and mudOf a familiar road.
11
If I bricked up ambition and gave no airTo the ancestral curse that gabbles there, I could leave wonder on the latch And with a whole heart watchThe calm declension of an English year.
I would be pædagogue—hear poplar, limeAnd oak recite the seasons' paradigm. Each year a dynasty would fall Within my orchard wall—I'd be their Tacitus, and they my time.
Among those pippin princes I could easeA heart long sick for some Hesperides: Plainsong of thrushes in the soul Would drown that rigmaroleOf Eldorados, Auks, and Perilous Seas.
