I now delight, In spite Of the might And the right Of classic tradition, In writing And reciting Straight ahead, Without let or omission, Just any little rhyme In any little time That runs in my head: Because, I've said, My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed Like Prussian soldiers on parade That march, Stiff as starch, Foot to foot, Boot to boot, Blade to blade, Button to button, Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton. No! No! My rhymes must go Turn 'ee, twist 'ee, Twinkling, frosty, Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty, Rhymes I will make Like Keats and Blake And Christina Rossetti, With run and ripple and shake. How petty To take A merry little rhyme In a jolly little time And poke it, And choke it, Change it, arrange it, Straight-lace it, deface it, Pleat it with pleats, Sheet it with sheets Of empty conceits, And chop and chew, And hack and hew, And weld it into a uniform stanza, And evolve a neat, Complacent, complete, Academic extravaganza! 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 stings, 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 scape-goat; For forty nights and days Followed in Jesus' ways, Sure guard behind Him kept, Tears like a lover wept. OH, AND OH! Oh, and oh! The world's a muddle, The clouds are untidy, Moon lopsidey, Shining in a puddle. Down dirty streets in stench and smoke The pale townsfolk Crawl and kiss and cuddle, In doorways hug and huddle; Loutish he And sluttish she In loathsome love together press And unbelievable ugliness. These spiders spin a loathly woof! I walk aloof, Head burning and heart snarling, Tread feverish quick; My love is sick; Far away lives my darling. 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.