AN upright man has dug this soil,
Who would not let this eggplant die;
Who pressed on Chaos with his toil —
That upright man, thank God, am I!
He would not let frost nip his beans;
He kept those onions watered well,
Although he said: ‘I think Life means
Through me a useless tale to tell.’
And so to-day, in Sunday best,
He counts his peppers in a line,
And gives his toil-lamed back a rest —
And that lame back, thank God, is mine!


How good it is to grow less young
And be not yet one hour too old;
With steadied mind and sobered tongue
To say calm things youth left untold.
Old oak newborn in Chaucer’s time,
Add now a year-ring to your bole,
Commemorating my good prime
Made sweeter by your oriole.
And after I have lived my span,
As linnets, singing, leave your boughs,
Say this with rustling leaves: ‘One man
Found life sweet after youth’s carouse.’


IT soothes me to perceive that I have come
To no decisions at all —
Poor automatic cymbal on a drum!
I clang as the sticks fall!
And all my grand decisions, I now see,
Were uncontrolled events,
Imposed upon me by the Referee
And registered by sense.
Yet to say this would still be to imply
That somewhat I had fought,
That Some One watched me with umpiring eye —
A thing beyond my thought.
For I perceive with mellowness to-day
That I am that Some One,
Watching swift little animals that play
In me a while, then run.