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I hope you find some poems here, though little and though late, which light the mind or please the ear and have been worth the wait.
You will, if in your mind one stays after you turn its page, redeem the outlay of my days although I took an age. He sat down under a juniper tree And wished that he might die. I am not better than my fathers Was his complaint and cry. The story always pleased me as a child. The way it named the tree — The particular kind he sat down under — Started my sympathy.
The phrase itself — not better than my fathers — I never understood. Admitting such a gauge of our condition Took me until manhood. The only time you criticised the Word Was over that story. It was plain unjust that He Sent Martha away, while Mary sat dreaming and idling all day, Taking that good part , maybe.
This made me want to orchestrate the play, Being the eldest, the impresario, But still present a seeming spontaneity,. Watchful in case the game flagged or a quarrel broke out.