Oh, Give Us Pleasure In

Something Sinister In The Tone Told Me My Secret Must Be Known: Word I Was In The House Alone Somehow Must Have Gotten Abroad, Word I Was In My Life Alone, Word I Had No One Left But God.

I Shall Set Forth For Somewhere, I Shall Make The Reckless Choice Some Say When They Are In Voice And Tossing So As To Scare The White Clouds Over Them On, I Shall Have Less To Say, But I Shall Be None.

But Not Gold In Commercial Quantities, Just Enough Gold To Make The Engagement Rings And Marriage Rings Of Those Who Owned The Farm. What Gold More Innocent Could One Have Asked For?

Oh, Give Us Pleasure In The Orch-ard White, Like Nothing Else By Day, Like Ghosts By Night.

To Be A Poet Is A Condition, Not A Profession.