Ah, God, I want a Ghetto And a Freud and an alley and some Immigrants calling names ... God, you know How awful it is.... Here are trees and birds and clouds And picturesquely neat children across the way on the grass Not doing anything Improper ... (Poor little fools, I mustn't blame them for that Perhaps they never Knew How....) [Illustration] But oh, God, take me to the nearest trolley line! This is a country landscape-- I can't stand it! God, take me away-- There is no Sex here And no Smell! _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ (Recites in a flippant voice which occasionally chokes up with irrepressible emotion, and clenching her hands tensely as she notices that the Grackle has hopped twice.) TEA O' HERBS O I have brought in now Bergamot, A packet o' brown senna And an iron pot; In my scarlet gown I make all hot. And other men and girls Write like me Setting herbs a-plenty In their poetry (_Bergamot for hair-oil,_ _Bergamot for tea!_) And they may do ill now Or they may do well, (Little should I care now What they have to sell--) But what bergamot and rue are None of them can tell. [Illustration] All above my bitter tea I have set a lid (As my bitter heart By its red gown hid) They write of bergamot Because I did.... (From its padded hangers They've snatched my red gown, Men as well as girls And gone down town, Flaunting my vocabulary, Every verb and noun!) And the grackle moans High above the pot, He is sick with herbs ... _And am I not,_ _Who have brought in_ _Bergamot?_ _John V. A. Weaver_ (With a strong note of infant brutality.) THE WEAVER BIRD Gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the tree All green an' cocky--why, it might be me Singin' to you.... Wisht I was just a bird Bringin' you worms--aw, you know, things I've heard 'Bout me--an' flowers, maybe.... Like as not Somebody'd get me with an old slingshot An' I'd be dead.... Gee, it'd break you up! Nothin' would be the same to you, I bet, Knowin' my grave was out there in the wet And we two couldn't pet no more.... Say, kid, It makes me weep, same as it always did, To think how bad you'd feel.... I got a thought, An awful funny one I sorta caught-- Nobody never thought that way, I guess-- When I get blue, an' things is in a mess I map out all my funeral, the hearses An' nineteen carriages, an' folks with verses Sayin' how great I was, an' all like that, An' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hat Tellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke, An' you, just smashed to think I had to croak.... I can't stand that bird, somehow--makes me cry.... _The world'll be darn sorry when I die!_ _David Morton_ (Who, being very polite, only thought it.) SONNET: TREES ARE NOT SHIPS