Fall 1947 • Vol. IX No. 4 Poetry |

From Ancient Fangs

(The time of this poem is in the far future, shortly after peace and love return to earth.) I. Like lamp of intricate stained glass which hangs  From curved blue ceiling, A fat bright-bellied insect hangs up there.  At night, on traveler, It drops like rich and heavy poison welling  From ancient fangs. II. That insect's not the only thing which falls. So many things must fall in their short day. Careers and wine-cups; bombs and tennis-balls. Even the sun. But sky? The sky must stay. But now the sky itself is caving in. O good old sky, 0 lid that keeps us snug, Dear sky in which we always used to trust As in the nurse our childhood bullied so, When comfort was to see her loyal grin, Ugly and safe, beam down on us below: Dear sky, we pray to you, hold on, you must! Hold tighter, sky. Be roof to us, not rug. III. "It seems I'm being prayed to: I  Am sky, Older than hours and than miles more far,  Your spectator. When worlds grow honest, noble,

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By Peter Viereck

(The time of this poem is in the far future, shortly after peace and love return to earth.) I. Like lamp of intricate stained glass which hangs  From curved blue […]

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