The Selected Poetry

My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing, Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.

She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.

Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?

The sky, I thought, is not so grand; I 'most could touch it with my hand! And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.

Your broad sky, Giant, Is the shelf of a cupboard. I make bean-stalks—I’m A builder like yourself; But bean-stalks is my trade— I couldn’t make a shelf

So is no warmth for me at any fire To-day, when the world’s fire has burned so low; I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire, At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong, And straighten back in weariness, and long To gather up my little gods and go.

My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing, Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going. (from Two Strangers and a Train)