Fall 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1956 |

Confusion in the Occident

Some were content to stint the Indian horde, And that dear seed, the wealth of poppies blown Floated to China through the Indian Sea. Lord So and So with his integrity, settled alone Among his pipes those satin faces. Ah, how the murmur goes Among the banyan leaves, death is a dancing step, A curtain drawn. How fit for governors To sit in private gardens undisturbed at nap. At dawn the enamelled gates turn rose And copper colored and the daws Hang down like spirits from the pipal trees, The solitary bees zig-zag about the sap, And Mr. Paundit sits upon his toes.

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By Ruth Stone

Some were content to stint the Indian horde, And that dear seed, the wealth of poppies blown Floated to China through the Indian Sea. Lord So and So with his […]

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