The days are short,
The sun a spark,
Hung thin between
The dark and dark.
Fat snowy footsteps
Track the floor.
Milk bottles burst
Outside the door.
A precious little child
Fashioned by God's own hand,
Sweetness that goes unequaled
by the handiwork of man.
A winter baby sleeping calmly
As mountains beneath a robe of white
And winter winds breathe softly
Of God's gift this wondrous little life.
Let other poets raise a fracas
Bout vines, and wines, an drucken Bacchus,
An crabbit names an stories wrack us,
An grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or Jug.
O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
ON the Sabbath-day,
Through the churchyard old and gray,
Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way;
And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms,
'Mid the gorgeous storms of music--in the mellow organ-calms,
'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,
I stood careless, Barbara.
My heart was otherwhere,
While the organ shook the air,
They tower in muted abstraction over the frosted waste
and the dewfall glitters in petrified suspension.
Their fingers blast the watercolour sky,
clawing in every direction like cursed fractals.
A dead scream of nothing cast into the winter void,
broken voices stolen away in Selene’s cold glow.
Once frothing with life, they now stand petrified and silent.
Anything but serene, they are sentinels of frozen destruction.
The earth’s lumbering axial shift
Peaceful is the dusk
When snow is softly falling
And ruby sun's just faded
Snowy hills beckon
to eager ones, sledding soon
in the gladsome days of youth!
ice crystals sunshine
at the sparkle of midday
as winter howls and moans
the stray dog sleeps
inside the moon
On a crisp clear morning, the sky is deeply blue,
And in the distance I can see, blue mountains too.
Blue jay is in the tree, powdery snow everywhere-
The sky is in the lake, frosty clouds in the air!
The sun lavishes lemon rays, never quite outdone,
While Uranus and Neptune, waltz afar from the sun.