Winter 1939 • Vol. I No. 1 Poetry |

The Dandelion Girls

As home-made candles with fuzzy wicksBent birches sprout out of a knobWhere brilliant clouds have surged away —Clouds are luxuriantly grey. Slackly curling below this knobA stagnant brook is stiff with swirls;By its charred stump three sirens twistButtery blooms in their rancid curls. If wishes were white horses IUnder the sirenic eyes should lie;Or fluctuate on that charming streamAs a windy wave-walking Christ; Or as an urchin with bare feet,Birch stick, bent pin and tattered shirtFlaunting his lanky fishing lineAnd chub from an opposing bank. But I dreamt sirens drank me inAs bawdy watchers of the stage;On me harsh birches, nursing dew,Showered their warm humidity.

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By R. T. S. Lowell

As home-made candles with fuzzy wicksBent birches sprout out of a knobWhere brilliant clouds have surged away —Clouds are luxuriantly grey. Slackly curling below this knobA stagnant brook is stiff […]

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