CGM, Here are a few of the Francis poems we discussed earlier, all of which belong here:
Indoor Lady
An indoor lady that I know
Laments the lateness of the spring—
The sun, the birds, the buds so slow,
The superannuated snow,
The wind that is possessed to blow.
Her sadly window-watching eyes,
Her uttered and unuttered sighs,
For such unseasonable skies
Give me to understand that spring
In other years was otherwise.
The Mouse Whose Name Is Time
The mouse whose name is Time
Is out of sound and sight.
He nibbles at the day
And nibbles at the night.
He nibbles at the summer
Till all of it is gone.
He nibbles at the seashore,
He nibbles at the moon.
Yet no man not a seer,
No woman not a sibyl
Can ever ever hear
Or see him nibble, nibble.
And whence or how he comes
And how or where he goes
Nobody now remembers,
Nobody living knows.
Farm Boy After Summer
A seated statue of himself he seems.
A bronze slowness becomes him. Patently
The page he contemplates he doesn’t see.
The lesson, the long lesson, has been summer.
His mind holds summer as his skin holds sun.
For once the homework, all of it, was done.
What were the crops, where were the fiery fields
Where for so many days so many hours
The sun assaulted him with glittering showers?
Expect a certain absence in his presence.
Expect all winter long a summer scholar,
For scarcely all its snows can cool that color.
Good Night Near Christmas
And now good night. Good night to this old house
Whose breathing fires are banked for their night's rest.
Good night to lighted windows in the west.
Good night to neighbors and to neighbor's cows
Whose morning milk will be beside my door.
Good night to one star shining in. Good night
To earth, poor earth with its uncertain light,
Our little wandering planet still at war.
Good night to one unstarved and gnawing mouse
Between the inner and the outer wall.
He has a paper nest in which to crawl.
Good night to men who have no bed, no house.
Now That Your Shoulders Reach My Shoulders
My shoulders once were yours for riding.
My feet were yours for walking, wading.
My morning once was yours for taking.
Still I can almost feel the pressure
Of your warm hands clasping my forehead
While my hands clasped your willing ankles.
Now that your shoulders reach my shoulders
What is there left for me to give you?
Where is a weight to lift as welcome?
Young Farmer
Once glance at him and you can tell
His fruit is clean, his corn is tall.
His sheep and cattle pastured well,
His buildings trim: house, barn, and wall.
You know the seed he sows is sound
As seed his forefathers have sown.
And when he plows and plants the ground
The crop must grow as he has grown.
While I slept
While I slept, while I slept and the night grew colder
She would come to my room, stepping softly
And draw a blanket about my shoulder
While I slept.
While I slept, while I slept in the dark, still heat
She would come to my bed, stepping cooly
And smooth the twisted, troubled sheet
While I slept.
Now she sleeps, sleeps under quiet rain
While nights grow warm or nights grow colder,
And I wake, and sleep, and wake again
While she sleeps.
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