10 Best Famous Rattle Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Rattle poems. This is a select list of the best famous Rattle poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Rattle poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of rattle poems.

• All Famous Rattle Poems

 THE warder looks down at the mid hour of night,

On the tombs that lie scatter'd below:
The moon fills the place with her silvery light,

And the churchyard like day seems to glow.
When see! first one grave, then another opes wide,
And women and men stepping forth are descried,

In cerements snow-white and trailing.

In haste for the sport soon their ankles they twitch,

And whirl round in dances so gay;
The young and the old, and the poor, and the rich,

But the cerements stand in their way;
And as modesty cannot avail them aught here,
They shake themselves all, and the shrouds soon appear

Scatter'd over the tombs in confusion.

Now waggles the leg, and now wriggles the thigh,

As the troop with strange gestures advance,
And a rattle and clatter anon rises high,

As of one beating time to the dance.
The sight to the warder seems wondrously *****,
When the villainous Tempter speaks thus in his ear:

"Seize one of the shrouds that lie yonder!"

Quick as thought it was done! and for safety he fled

Behind the church-door with all speed;
The moon still continues her clear light to shed

On the dance that they fearfully lead.
But the dancers at length disappear one by one,
And their shrouds, ere they vanish, they carefully don,

And under the turf all is quiet.

But one of them stumbles and shuffles there still,

And gropes at the graves in despair;
Yet 'tis by no comrade he's treated so ill

The shroud he soon scents in the air.
So he rattles the door--for the warder 'tis well
That 'tis bless'd, and so able the foe to repel,

All cover'd with crosses in metal.

The shroud he must have, and no rest will allow,

There remains for reflection no time;
On the ornaments Gothic the wight seizes now,

And from point on to point hastes to climb.
Alas for the warder! his doom is decreed!
Like a long-legged spider, with ne'er-changing speed,

Advances the dreaded pursuer.

The warder he quakes, and the warder turns pale,

The shroud to restore fain had sought;
When the end,--now can nothing to save him avail,--

In a tooth formed of iron is caught.
With vanishing lustre the moon's race is run,
When the bell thunders loudly a powerful One,

And the skeleton fails, crush'd to atoms.

1813.

 1
A SONG of the good green grass! 
A song no more of the city streets; 
A song of farms—a song of the soil of fields. 

A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork; 
A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk’d maize.

2
For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for myself, 
Now I awhile return to thee, O soil of Autumn fields, 
Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee, 
Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart, 
Tuning a verse for thee.

O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice! 
O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths! 
O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb! 
A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee. 

3
Ever upon this stage,
Is acted God’s calm, annual drama, 
Gorgeous processions, songs of birds, 
Sunrise, that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul, 
The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves, 
The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees,
The flowers, the grass, the lilliput, countless armies of the grass, 
The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages, 
The scenery of the snows, the winds’ free orchestra, 
The stretching, light-hung roof of clouds—the clear cerulean, and the bulging,
 silvery
 fringes, 
The high dilating stars, the placid, beckoning stars,
The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows, 
The shows of all the varied lands, and all the growths and products. 

4
Fecund America! To-day, 
Thou art all over set in births and joys! 
Thou groan’st with riches! thy wealth clothes thee as with a swathing garment!
Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions! 
A myriad-twining life, like interlacing vines, binds all thy vast demesne! 
As some huge ship, freighted to water’s edge, thou ridest into port! 
As rain falls from the heaven, and vapors rise from earth, so have the precious values
 fallen
 upon thee, and risen out of thee! 
Thou envy of the globe! thou miracle!
Thou, bathed, choked, swimming in plenty! 
Thou lucky Mistress of the tranquil barns! 
Thou Prairie Dame that sittest in the middle, and lookest out upon thy world, and lookest
 East,
 and lookest West! 
Dispensatress, that by a word givest a thousand miles—that giv’st a million
 farms,
 and missest nothing! 
Thou All-Acceptress—thou Hospitable—(thou only art hospitable, as God is
 hospitable.)

5
When late I sang, sad was my voice; 
Sad were the shows around me, with deafening noises of hatred, and smoke of conflict; 
In the midst of the armies, the Heroes, I stood, 
Or pass’d with slow step through the wounded and dying. 

But now I sing not War,
Nor the measur’d march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps, 
Nor the regiments hastily coming up, deploying in line of battle. 

No more the dead and wounded; 
No more the sad, unnatural shows of War. 

Ask’d room those flush’d immortal ranks? the first forth-stepping armies?
Ask room, alas, the ghastly ranks—the armies dread that follow’d. 

6
(Pass—pass, ye proud brigades! 
So handsome, dress’d in blue—with your tramping, sinewy legs; 
With your shoulders young and strong—with your knapsacks and your muskets; 
—How elate I stood and watch’d you, where, starting off, you march’d!

Pass;—then rattle, drums, again! 
Scream, you steamers on the river, out of whistles loud and shrill, your salutes! 
For an army heaves in sight—O another gathering army! 
Swarming, trailing on the rear—O you dread, accruing army! 
O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea! with your fever!
O my land’s maimed darlings! with the plenteous bloody bandage and the crutch! 
Lo! your pallid army follow’d!) 

7
But on these days of brightness, 
On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes, the high-piled
 farm-wagons, and
 the fruits and barns, 
Shall the dead intrude?

Ah, the dead to me mar not—they fit well in Nature; 
They fit very well in the landscape, under the trees and grass, 
And along the edge of the sky, in the horizon’s far margin. 

Nor do I forget you, departed; 
Nor in winter or summer, my lost ones;
But most, in the open air, as now, when my soul is rapt and at peace—like pleasing
 phantoms, 
Your dear memories, rising, glide silently by me. 

8
I saw the day, the return of the Heroes; 
(Yet the Heroes never surpass’d, shall never return; 
Them, that day, I saw not.)

I saw the interminable Corps—I saw the processions of armies, 
I saw them approaching, defiling by, with divisions, 
Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile in clusters of mighty camps. 

No holiday soldiers!—youthful, yet veterans; 
Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homestead and workshop,
Harden’d of many a long campaign and sweaty march, 
Inured on many a hard-fought, bloody field. 

9
A pause—the armies wait; 
A million flush’d, embattled conquerors wait; 
The world, too, waits—then, soft as breaking night, and sure as dawn,
They melt—they disappear. 

Exult, indeed, O lands! victorious lands! 
Not there your victory, on those red, shuddering fields; 
But here and hence your victory. 

Melt, melt away, ye armies! disperse, ye blue-clad soldiers!
Resolve ye back again—give up, for good, your deadly arms; 
Other the arms, the fields henceforth for you, or South or North, or East or West, 
With saner wars—sweet wars—life-giving wars. 

10
Loud, O my throat, and clear, O soul! 
The season of thanks, and the voice of full-yielding;
The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility. 

All till’d and untill’d fields expand before me; 
I see the true arenas of my race—or first, or last, 
Man’s innocent and strong arenas. 

I see the Heroes at other toils;
I see, well-wielded in their hands, the better weapons. 

11
I see where America, Mother of All, 
Well-pleased, with full-spanning eye, gazes forth, dwells long, 
And counts the varied gathering of the products. 

Busy the far, the sunlit panorama;
Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North, 
Cotton and rice of the South, and Louisianian cane; 
Open, unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy, 
Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine, 
And many a stately river flowing, and many a jocund brook,
And healthy uplands with their herby-perfumed breezes, 
And the good green grass—that delicate miracle, the ever-recurring grass. 

12
Toil on, Heroes! harvest the products! 
Not alone on those warlike fields, the Mother of All, 
With dilated form and lambent eyes, watch’d you.

Toil on, Heroes! toil well! Handle the weapons well! 
The Mother of All—yet here, as ever, she watches you. 

Well-pleased, America, thou beholdest, 
Over the fields of the West, those crawling monsters, 
The human-divine inventions, the labor-saving implements:
Beholdest, moving in every direction, imbued as with life, the revolving hay-rakes, 
The steam-power reaping-machines, and the horse-power machines, 
The engines, thrashers of grain, and cleaners of grain, well separating the straw—the
 nimble work of the patent pitch-fork; 
Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the rice-cleanser. 

Beneath thy look, O Maternal,
With these, and else, and with their own strong hands, the Heroes harvest. 

All gather, and all harvest; 
(Yet but for thee, O Powerful! not a scythe might swing, as now, in security; 
Not a maize-stalk dangle, as now, its silken tassels in peace.) 

13
Under Thee only they harvest—even but a wisp of hay, under thy great face, only;
Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin—every barbed spear, under thee; 
Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee—each ear in its light-green
 sheath, 
Gather the hay to its myriad mows, in the odorous, tranquil barns, 
Oats to their bins—the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan, to theirs; 
Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama—dig and hoard the golden, the sweet
 potato of
 Georgia and the Carolinas,
Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania, 
Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp, or tobacco in the Borders, 
Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees, or bunches of grapes from the
 vines, 
Or aught that ripens in all These States, or North or South, 
Under the beaming sun, and under Thee.

 Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!

 Brown lived at such a lofty farm
 That everyone for miles could see
His lantern when he did his chores
 In winter after half-past three.

And many must have seen him make
 His wild descent from there one night,
’Cross lots, ’cross walls, ’cross everything,
 Describing rings of lantern light.

Between the house and barn the gale
 Got him by something he had on
And blew him out on the icy crust
 That cased the world, and he was gone!

Walls were all buried, trees were few:
 He saw no stay unless he stove
A hole in somewhere with his heel.
 But though repeatedly he strove

And stamped and said things to himself,
 And sometimes something seemed to yield,
He gained no foothold, but pursued
 His journey down from field to field.

Sometimes he came with arms outspread
 Like wings, revolving in the scene
Upon his longer axis, and
 With no small dignity of mien.

Faster or slower as he chanced,
 Sitting or standing as he chose,
According as he feared to risk
 His neck, or thought to spare his clothes,

He never let the lantern drop.
 And some exclaimed who saw afar
The figures he described with it,
 ”I wonder what those signals are

Brown makes at such an hour of night!
 He’s celebrating something strange.
I wonder if he’s sold his farm,
 Or been made Master of the Grange.”

He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked;
 He fell and made the lantern rattle
(But saved the light from going out.)
 So half-way down he fought the battle

Incredulous of his own bad luck.
 And then becoming reconciled
To everything, he gave it up
 And came down like a coasting child.

“Well—I—be—” that was all he said,
 As standing in the river road,
He looked back up the slippery slope
 (Two miles it was) to his abode.

Sometimes as an authority
 On motor-cars, I’m asked if I
Should say our stock was petered out,
 And this is my sincere reply:

Yankees are what they always were.
 Don’t think Brown ever gave up hope
Of getting home again because
 He couldn’t climb that slippery slope;

Or even thought of standing there
 Until the January thaw
Should take the polish off the crust.
 He bowed with grace to natural law,

And then went round it on his feet,
 After the manner of our stock;
Not much concerned for those to whom,
 At that particular time o’clock,

It must have looked as if the course
 He steered was really straight away
From that which he was headed for—
 Not much concerned for them, I say:

No more so than became a man—
 And politician at odd seasons.
I’ve kept Brown standing in the cold
 While I invested him with reasons;

But now he snapped his eyes three times;
 Then shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s
’Bout out!” and took the long way home
 By road, a matter of several miles.

 SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF
LEARNING IN EUROPE.

Let us begin and carry up this corpse,
Singing together.
Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes
Each in its tether
Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain,
Cared-for till cock-crow:
Look out if yonder be not day again
Rimming the rock-row!
That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought,
Rarer, intenser,
Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought,
Chafes in the censer.
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop;
Seek we sepulture
On a tall mountain, citied to the top,
Crowded with culture!
All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels;
Clouds overcome it;
No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's
Circling its summit.
Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights:
Wait ye the warning?
Our low life was the level's and the night's;
He's for the morning.
Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head,
'Ware the beholders!
This is our master, famous calm and dead,
Borne on our shoulders.

Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft,
Safe from the weather!
He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft,
Singing together,
He was a man born with thy face and throat,
Lyric Apollo!
Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note
Winter would follow?
Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone!
Cramped and diminished,
Moaned he, ``New measures, other feet anon!
``My dance is finished?''
No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side,
Make for the city!)
He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride
Over men's pity;
Left play for work, and grappled with the world
Bent on escaping:
``What's in the scroll,'' quoth he, ``thou keepest furled?
``Show me their shaping,
``Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,---
``Give!''---So, he gowned him,
Straight got by heart that hook to its last page:
Learned, we found him.
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead,
Accents uncertain:
``Time to taste life,'' another would have said,
``Up with the curtain!''
This man said rather, ``Actual life comes next?
``Patience a moment!
``Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text,
``Still there's the comment.
``Let me know all! Prate not of most or least,
``Painful or easy!
``Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast,
``Ay, nor feel queasy.''
Oh, such a life as he resolved to live,
When he had learned it,
When he had gathered all books had to give!
Sooner, he spurned it.
Image the whole, then execute the parts---
Fancy the fabric
Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,
Ere mortar dab brick!

(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place
Gaping before us.)
Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace
(Hearten our chorus!)
That before living he'd learn how to live---
No end to learning:
Earn the means first---God surely will contrive
Use for our earning.
Others mistrust and say, ``But time escapes:
``Live now or never!''
He said, ``What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!
``Man has Forever.''
Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head
_Calculus_ racked him:
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:
_Tussis_ attacked him.
``Now, master, take a little rest!''---not he!
(Caution redoubled,
Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)
Not a whit troubled
Back to his studies, fresher than at first,
Fierce as a dragon
He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst)
Sucked at the flagon.

Oh, if we draw a circle premature,
Heedless of far gain,
Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure
Bad is our bargain!
Was it not great? did not he throw on God,
(He loves the burthen)---
God's task to make the heavenly period
Perfect the earthen?
Did not he magnify the mind, show clear
Just what it all meant?
He would not discount life, as fools do here,
Paid by instalment.
He ventured neck or nothing---heaven's success
Found, or earth's failure:
``Wilt thou trust death or not?'' He answered ``Yes:
``Hence with life's pale lure!''
That low man seeks a little thing to do,
Sees it and does it:
This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.
That low man goes on adding nine to one,
His hundred's soon hit:
This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit.
That, has the world here---should he need the next,
Let the world mind him!
This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed
Seeking shall find him.
So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,
Ground he at grammar;
Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife:
While he could stammer
He settled _Hoti's_ business---let it be!---
Properly based _Oun_---
Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_,
Dead from the waist down.
Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place:
Hail to your purlieus,
All ye highfliers of the feathered race,
Swallows and curlews!
Here's the top-peak; the multitude below
Live, for they can, there:
This man decided not to Live but Know---
Bury this man there?
Here---here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,
Lightnings are loosened,
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,
Peace let the dew send!
Lofty designs must close in like effects
Loftily lying,
Leave him---still loftier than the world suspects,
Living and dying.

 I'm mighty glad to see you, Mrs. Curtis,
And thank you very kindly for this visit--
Especially now when all the others here
Are having holiday visitors, and I feel
A little conspicuous and in the way.
It's mainly because of Thanksgiving. All these mothers
And wives and husbands gaze at me soulfully
And feel they should break up their box of chocolates
For a donation, or hand me a chunk of fruitcake. 
What they don't understand and never guess
Is that it's better for me without a family;
It's a great blessing. Though I mean no harm.
And as for visitors, why, I have you,
All cheerful, brisk and punctual every Sunday,
Like church, even if the aisles smell of phenol.
And you always bring even better gifts than any 
On your book-trolley. Though they mean only good,
Families can become a sort of burden.
I've only got my father, and he won't come,
Poor man, because it would be too much for him.
And for me, too, so it's best the way it is. 
He knows, you see, that I will predecease him,
Which is hard enough. It would take a callous man
To come and stand around and watch me failing.
(Now don't you fuss; we both know the plain facts.)
But for him it's even harder. He loved my mother.
They say she looked like me; I suppose she may have.
Or rather, as I grew older I came to look
More and more like she must one time have looked,
And so the prospect for my father now
Of losing me is like having to lose her twice.
I know he frets about me. Dr. Frazer
Tells me he phones in every single day,
Hoping that things will take a turn for the better.
But with leukemia things don't improve.
It's like a sort of blizzard in the bloodstream,
A deep, severe, unseasonable winter,
Burying everything. The white blood cells
Multiply crazily and storm around,
Out of control. The chemotherapy
Hasn't helped much, and it makes my hair fall out.
I know I look a sight, but I don't care.
I care about fewer things; I'm more selective.
It's got so I can't even bring myself
To read through any of your books these days.
It's partly weariness, and partly the fact
That I seem not to care much about the endings,
How things work out, or whether they even do.
What I do instead is sit here by this window
And look out at the trees across the way.
You wouldn't think that was much, but let me tell you,
It keeps me quite intent and occupied.
Now all the leaves are down, you can see the spare,
Delicate structures of the sycamores,
The fine articulation of the beeches.
I have sat here for days studying them,
And I have only just begun to see
What it is that they resemble. One by one,
They stand there like magnificent enlargements
Of the vascular system of the human brain.
I see them there like huge discarnate minds,
Lost in their meditative silences.
The trunks, branches and twigs compose the vessels
That feed and nourish vast immortal thoughts.
So I've assigned them names. There, near the path,
Is the great brain of Beethoven, and Kepler
Haunts the wide spaces of that mountain ash.
This view, you see, has become my Hall of Fame,
It came to me one day when I remembered 
Mary Beth Finley who used to play with me
When we were girls. One year her parents gave her
A birthday toy called "The Transparent Man."
It was made of plastic, with different colored organs,
And the circulatory system all mapped out
In rivers of red and blue. She'd ask me over
And the two of us would sit and study him
Together, and do a powerful lot of giggling.
I figure he's most likely the only man
Either of us would ever get to know
Intimately, because Mary Beth became
A Sister of Mercy when she was old enough.
She must be thirty-one; she was a year 
Older than I, and about four inches taller.
I used to envy both those advantages
Back in those days. Anyway, I was struck
Right from the start by the sea-weed intricacy,
The fine-haired, silken-threaded filiations
That wove, like Belgian lace, throughout the head.
But this last week it seems I have found myself
Looking beyond, or through, individual trees
At the dense, clustered woodland just behind them,
Where those great, nameless crowds patiently stand.
It's become a sort of complex, ultimate puzzle
And keeps me fascinated. My eyes are twenty-twenty,
Or used to be, but of course I can't unravel
The tousled snarl of intersecting limbs,
That mackled, cinder grayness. It's a riddle
Beyond the eye's solution. Impenetrable.
If there is order in all that anarchy
Of granite mezzotint, that wilderness,
It takes a better eye than mine to see it.
It set me on to wondering how to deal
With such a thickness of particulars,
Deal with it faithfully, you understand,
Without blurring the issue. Of course I know
That within a month the sleeving snows will come
With cold, selective emphases, with massings
And arbitrary contrasts, rendering things
Deceptively simple, thickening the twigs
To frosty veins, bestowing epaulets
And decorations on every birch and aspen.
And the eye, self-satisfied, will be misled,
Thinking the puzzle solved, supposing at last
It can look forth and comprehend the world.
That's when you have to really watch yourself.
So I hope that you won't think me plain ungrateful
For not selecting one of your fine books,
And I take it very kindly that you came
And sat here and let me rattle on this way.

 Lancaster bore him--such a little town, 
Such a great man. It doesn't see him often 
Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead 
And sends the children down there with their mother 
To run wild in the summer--a little wild. 
Sometimes he joins them for a day or two 
And sees old friends he somehow can't get near. 
They meet him in the general store at night, 
Pre-occupied with formidable mail, 
Rifling a printed letter as he talks. 
They seem afraid. He wouldn't have it so: 
Though a great scholar, he's a democrat, 
If not at heart, at least on principle. 
Lately when coming up to Lancaster 
His train being late he missed another train 
And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction 
After eleven o'clock at night. Too tired 
To think of sitting such an ordeal out, 
He turned to the hotel to find a bed. 
"No room," the night clerk said. "Unless----" 
Woodsville's a place of shrieks and wandering lamps 
And cars that shook and rattle--and one hotel. 
"You say 'unless.'" 
"Unless you wouldn't mind 
Sharing a room with someone else." 
"Who is it?" 
"A man." 
"So I should hope. What kind of man?" 
"I know him: he's all right. A man's a man. 
Separate beds of course you understand." 
The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on. 
"Who's that man sleeping in the office chair? 
Has he had the refusal of my chance?" 
"He was afraid of being robbed or murdered. 
What do you say?" 
"I'll have to have a bed." 
The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs 
And down a narrow passage full of doors, 
At the last one of which he knocked and entered. 
"Lafe, here's a fellow wants to share your room." 
"Show him this way. I'm not afraid of him. 
I'm not so drunk I can't take care of myself." 
The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot. 
"This will be yours. Good-night," he said, and went. 
"Lafe was the name, I think?" 
"Yes, Layfayette. 
You got it the first time. And yours?" 
"Magoon. 
Doctor Magoon." 
"A Doctor?" 
"Well, a teacher." 
"Professor Square-the-circle-till-you're-tired? 
Hold on, there's something I don't think of now 
That I had on my mind to ask the first 
Man that knew anything I happened in with. 
I'll ask you later--don't let me forget it." 
The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away. 
A man? A brute. Naked above the waist, 
He sat there creased and shining in the light, 
Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt. 
"I'm moving into a size-larger shirt. 
I've felt mean lately; mean's no name for it. 
I just found what the matter was to-night: 
I've been a-choking like a nursery tree 
When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag. 
I blamed it on the hot spell we've been having. 
'Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back, 
Not liking to own up I'd grown a size. 
Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?" 
The Doctor caught his throat convulsively. 
"Oh--ah--fourteen--fourteen." 
"Fourteen! You say so! 
I can remember when I wore fourteen. 
And come to think I must have back at home 
More than a hundred collars, size fourteen. 
Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them. 
They're yours and welcome; let me send them to you. 
What makes you stand there on one leg like that? 
You're not much furtherer than where Kike left you. 
You act as if you wished you hadn't come. 
Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous." 
The Doctor made a subdued dash for it, 
And propped himself at bay against a pillow. 
"Not that way, with your shoes on Kike's white bed. 
You can't rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off." 
"Don't touch me, please--I say, don't touch me, please. 
I'll not be put to bed by you, my man." 
"Just as you say. Have it your own way then. 
'My man' is it? You talk like a professor. 
Speaking of who's afraid of who, however, 
I'm thinking I have more to lose than you 
If anything should happen to be wrong. 
Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat! 
Let's have a show down as an evidence 
Of good faith. There is ninety dollars. 
Come, if you're not afraid." 
"I'm not afraid. 
There's five: that's all I carry." 
"I can search you? 
Where are you moving over to? Stay still. 
You'd better tuck your money under you 
And sleep on it the way I always do 
When I'm with people I don't trust at night." 
"Will you believe me if I put it there 
Right on the counterpane--that I do trust you?" 
"You'd say so, Mister Man.--I'm a collector. 
My ninety isn't mine--you won't think that. 
I pick it up a dollar at a time 
All round the country for the Weekly News, 
Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?" 
"Known it since I was young." 
"Then you know me. 
Now we are getting on together--talking. 
I'm sort of Something for it at the front. 
My business is to find what people want: 
They pay for it, and so they ought to have it. 
Fairbanks, he says to me--he's editor-- 
Feel out the public sentiment--he says. 
A good deal comes on me when all is said. 
The only trouble is we disagree 
In politics: I'm Vermont Democrat-- 
You know what that is, sort of double-dyed; 
The News has always been Republican. 
Fairbanks, he says to me, 'Help us this year,' 
Meaning by us their ticket. 'No,' I says, 
'I can't and won't. You've been in long enough: 
It's time you turned around and boosted us. 
You'll have to pay me more than ten a week 
If I'm expected to elect Bill Taft. 
I doubt if I could do it anyway.'" 
"You seem to shape the paper's policy." 
"You see I'm in with everybody, know 'em all. 
I almost know their farms as well as they do." 
"You drive around? It must be pleasant work." 
"It's business, but I can't say it's not fun. 
What I like best's the lay of different farms, 
Coming out on them from a stretch of woods, 
Or over a hill or round a sudden corner. 
I like to find folks getting out in spring, 
Raking the dooryard, working near the house. 
Later they get out further in the fields. 
Everything's shut sometimes except the barn; 
The family's all away in some back meadow. 
There's a hay load a-coming--when it comes. 
And later still they all get driven in: 
The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches 
Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees 
To whips and poles. There's nobody about. 
The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking. 
And I lie back and ride. I take the reins 
Only when someone's coming, and the mare 
Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go. 
I've spoiled Jemima in more ways than one. 
She's got so she turns in at every house 
As if she had some sort of curvature, 
No matter if I have no errand there. 
She thinks I'm sociable. I maybe am. 
It's seldom I get down except for meals, though. 
Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep, 
All in a family row down to the youngest." 
"One would suppose they might not be as glad 
To see you as you are to see them." 
"Oh, 
Because I want their dollar. I don't want 
Anything they've not got. I never dun. 
I'm there, and they can pay me if they like. 
I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by. 
Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink. 
I drink out of the bottle--not your style. 
Mayn't I offer you----?" 
"No, no, no, thank you." 
"Just as you say. Here's looking at you then.-- 
And now I'm leaving you a little while. 
You'll rest easier when I'm gone, perhaps-- 
Lie down--let yourself go and get some sleep. 
But first--let's see--what was I going to ask you? 
Those collars--who shall I address them to, 
Suppose you aren't awake when I come back?" 
"Really, friend, I can't let you. You--may need them." 
"Not till I shrink, when they'll be out of style." 
"But really I--I have so many collars." 
"I don't know who I rather would have have them. 
They're only turning yellow where they are. 
But you're the doctor as the saying is. 
I'll put the light out. Don't you wait for me: 
I've just begun the night. You get some sleep. 
I'll knock so-fashion and peep round the door 
When I come back so you'll know who it is. 
There's nothing I'm afraid of like scared people. 
I don't want you should shoot me in the head. 
What am I doing carrying off this bottle? 
There now, you get some sleep." 
He shut the door. 
The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.

 Some are teethed on a silver spoon,
With the stars strung for a rattle;
I cut my teeth as the black racoon--
For implements of battle.
Some are swaddled in silk and down,
And heralded by a star;
They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown
On a night that was black as tar.
For some, godfather and goddame
The opulent fairies be;
Dame Poverty gave me my name,
And Pain godfathered me.
For I was born on Saturday--
"Bad time for planting a seed,"
Was all my father had to say,
And, "One mouth more to feed."
Death cut the strings that gave me life,
And handed me to Sorrow,
The only kind of middle wife
My folks could beg or borrow.

 "He gave her class. She gave him sex." 
 -- Katharine Hepburn on Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers 

He gave her money. She gave him head. 
He gave her tips on "aggressive growth" mutual funds. She gave him a red rose 
 and a little statue of eros. 
He gave her Genesis 2 (21-23). She gave him Genesis 1 (26-28). 
He gave her a square peg. She gave him a round hole. 
He gave her Long Beach on a late Sunday in September. She gave him zinnias 
 and cosmos in the plenitude of July. 
He gave her a camisole and a brooch. She gave him a cover and a break. 
He gave her Venice, Florida. She gave him Rome, New York. 
He gave her a false sense of security. She gave him a true sense of uncertainty. 
He gave her the finger. She gave him what for. 
He gave her a black eye. She gave him a divorce. 
He gave her a steak for her black eye. She gave him his money back. 
He gave her what she had never had before. She gave him what he had had and 
 lost. 
He gave her nastiness in children. She gave him prudery in adults. 
He gave her Panic Hill. She gave him Mirror Lake. 
He gave her an anthology of drum solos. She gave him the rattle of leaves in 
 the wind.

 Everything has its limit, including sorrow.
A windowpane stalls a stare. Nor does a grill abandon
a leaf. One may rattle the keys, gurgle down a swallow.
Loneless cubes a man at random.
A camel sniffs at the rail with a resentful nostril;
a perspective cuts emptiness deep and even. 
And what is space anyway if not the
body's absence at every given
point? That's why Urania's older sister Clio! 
in daylight or with the soot-rich lantern,
you see the globe's pate free of any bio,
you see she hides nothing, unlike the latter. 
There they are, blueberry-laden forests,
rivers where the folk with bare hands catch sturgeon
or the towns in whose soggy phone books
you are starring no longer; father eastward surge on
brown mountain ranges; wild mares carousing
in tall sedge; the cheeckbones get yellower
as they turn numerous. And still farther east, steam dreadnoughts
 or cruisers,
and the expanse grows blue like lace underwear.