s
And all the tens to twelves,
The world would be nonsensical,
And we should all be elves.

If every street in Camden Town
Were paved with precious stones,
If modest souls began to drape
Their table-legs in decent crape,
If every squirrel wore a cape
And had the name of Jones,
I'd weave a robe of beetles' eyes
And jellyfishes' bones.

If kingcups blossomed in the sky
And fell like golden rain
In grey half-light shot through and through
With shafts of green and shafts of blue,
If pink and purple chickweed grew
On every window pane,
All truly tidy folk would deem
The universe insane.

If we were sensible enough
To hear the bluebells ring,
Were sight so true and hearts so wise
That we could see with glowing eyes
Enchantment flaming from the skies
And joy in everything,
Then every girl a queen would be,
And every boy a king.

_Alone with these my poems..._

Alone with these my poems, when night is still,
Earth seems but a speck of fluttering dust,
Moth-like, in a waste of eternity.

Alone with these symbols of human thought,
All our measureless system of whirling worlds
Seems itself a symbol, a chance phrase
In a poem wrought by the hand of a brooding god,
Where we ourselves are less than commas and dots.
And had he smeared out with careless thumb
All life, from its first birth in the waters
To the ultimate dissolution of stars and suns,
He had made no more than an ill-timed caesura.

Alone with these my poems, when night is still,
I am less than a speck of dust on the wing of a moth
Fluttering in a waste of eternity.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mice & Other Poems, by Gerald Bullett

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