Summer 1959 • Vol. XXI No. 3 Poetry |

Of the Son, of the Father

When my father shaking his dusty locks And whistling through the bars of his white moustache (That used to menace with its black regal leaves) Tumbled with me down to the summer garden, I twenty years on his shoulders sitting proud Felt his big legs begin to buckle. Then I stood too high, grabbing at every pear That brandished green lips down at my open hands And filled my bags strung rampant across his back. Why should my tongue, after the cold globes, tell His ankles planted in the earth already Or his eyes after a bank to put me down? Take thirty years of me and my son shall keep His father for his honored horse, that loves The arrogant child all garlanded with fruits And trumpeting flowers as any thoughtless knight. A boy can handle my heart that unlocks And let its snow drift over my moustache. My first son was a prince among the leaves, The heir-apparent to the ancient garden; The blood of apples stained his lips, and proud I brought him through the flower patches. Then We

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Fabulists

By Herbert Morris

When my father shaking his dusty locks And whistling through the bars of his white moustache (That used to menace with its black regal leaves) Tumbled with me down to […]

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