one in the thousand of those who write good verse would deserve them. But I ask the sceptical individual to re-read them after he has perused the poems themselves.
I will present several without interrupting comment:
DAWN
Grey trees, grey skies, and not a star;
Grey mist, grey hush;
And then, frail, exquisite, afar,
A hermit-thrush.
A WINTER TWILIGHT
A silence slipping around like death,
Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;
One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,
Inking their crests ’gainst a sky green-gold;
One path that knows where the corn flowers were;
Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;
And over it softly leaning down,
One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.
THE PUPPET-PLAYER
Sometimes it seems as though some puppet-player,
A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin.
Sits just beyond the border of our seeing,
Twitching the strings with slow, sardonic grin.
