
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble Sheep a threat’ning horn;
While the Lilly white shall in Love delight,
Nor a thorn, nor a threat, stain her beauty bright.

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble Sheep a threat’ning horn;
While the Lilly white shall in Love delight,
Nor a thorn, nor a threat, stain her beauty bright.


perched egret
clears a window in pond scum,
and waits — statue-like!
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain, --
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.
People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.
Is it every person's dream
To be what one is,
And not what one seems?
Or would one rather be
The creature of one's dreams --
Who no one ever sees?
Or should one be the best
Of real and imagined:
The host and the guest?
How much of who we are
Is the views of others
And how much is ours?
(And is any of it
Written in the stars?)
The Bigger they Fall, The Harder They Are