The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling A song about some Lovers at a Fair, Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling That rhymes were beastly things and never there. And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking About the tragic poem I'd been writing,... An old man's life of beer and whisky drinking, His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting; And how at last, into a fever sinking, Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting. But suddenly I saw the bright green cover Of a thin pretty book right down below; I snatched it up and turned the pages over, To find it full of poetry, and so Put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover, And turned to watch if the old man saw it go. The book was full of funny muddling mazes, Each rounded off into a lovely song, And most extraordinary and monstrous phrases Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong. And metre twisting like a chain of daisies With great big splendid words a sentence long. I took the book to bed with me and gloated, Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand; So soon the pretty emerald green was coated With jam and greasy marks from my hot hand, While round the nursery for long months there floated Wonderful words no one could understand. IN THE WILDERNESS Christ of His gentleness Thirsting and hungering, Walked in the wilderness; Soft words of grace He spoke Unto lost desert-folk That listened wondering. He heard the bitterns call From ruined palace-wall, Answered them brotherly. He held communion With the she-pelican Of lonely piety. Basilisk, cockatrice, Flocked to his homilies, With mail of dread device, With monstrous barbéd slings, With eager dragon-eyes; Great rats on leather wings And poor blind broken things, Foul in their miseries. And ever with Him went, Of all His wanderings Comrade, with ragged coat, Gaunt ribs--poor innocent-- Bleeding foot, burning throat, The guileless old scapegoat; For forty nights and days Followed in Jesus' ways, Sure guard behind Him kept, Tears like a lover wept. CHERRY-TIME Cherries of the night are riper Than the cherries pluckt at noon Gather to your fairy piper When he pipes his magic tune: Merry, merry, Take a cherry; Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder, Mine are sweeter For the eater Under the moon. And you'll be fairies soon. In the cherry pluckt at night, With the dew of summer swelling, There's a juice of pure delight, Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling. Merry, merry, Take a cherry; Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder Mine are sweeter For the eater In the moonlight. And you'll be fairies quite.