Our Father, God; our Brother, Christ, Or are we bastard kin, That to our plaints your ears are closed, Your doors barred from within? Our Father, God; our Brother, Christ, Retrieve my race again; So shall you compass this black sheep, This pagan heart. Amen. _Wisdom Cometh With the Years_ Now I am young and credulous, My heart is quick to bleed At courage in the tremulous Slow sprouting of a seed. Now I am young and sensitive, Man’s lack can stab me through; I own no stitch I would not give To him that asked me to. Now I am young and a fool for love, My blood goes mad to see A brown girl pass me like a dove That flies melodiously. Let me be lavish of my tears, And dream that false is true; Though wisdom cometh with the years, The barren days come, too. _To My Fairer Brethren_ Though I score you with my best, Treble circumstance Must confirm the verdict, lest It be laid to chance. Insufficient that I match you Every coin you flip; Your demand is that I catch you Squarely on the hip. Should I wear my wreaths a bit Rakishly and proud, I have bought my right to it; Let it be allowed. _Fruit of the Flower_ My father is a quiet man With sober, steady ways; For simile, a folded fan; His nights are like his days. My mother’s life is puritan, No hint of cavalier, A pool so calm you’re sure it can Have little depth to fear. And yet my father’s eyes can boast How full his life has been; There haunts them yet the languid ghost Of some still sacred sin. And though my mother chants of God, And of the mystic river, I’ve seen a bit of checkered sod Set all her flesh aquiver. Why should he deem it pure mischance A son of his is fain To do a naked tribal dance Each time he hears the rain? Why should she think it devil’s art That all my songs should be Of love and lovers, broken heart, And wild sweet agony? Who plants a seed begets a bud, Extract of that same root; Why marvel at the hectic blood That flushes this wild fruit? _The Shroud of Color_ (_For Llewellyn Ransom_)