The Hidden Years
A POEM
A workman asked at a village door,
“Have you a bed, a chair,
A fallen shelf, a broken drawer,
A table to repair?”
The mistress looked from the dusty room
But went her dusty way:
She could not rest from brush and broom
To hear the lad today.
The busy daughter looked and sighed
And fretted as she spun,
“Another peddler?” “Yes,” replied
The mother, “Joseph’s son.”
You May Also Enjoy
Envy of the Empty Air
Of what do they dream
— the white-robed monks?
while we
with half-shaped forms
from…
The Gravity of Our Situation
Now we shall conquer space they say,
Why not? We came from far away,
Seeing…