: Poems Vol. IV by Howard Hattie - American poetry

@FreeBooksTue 06 Jun, 2023

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Ah, yes, a rainy day may be A blessed interval! A little halt for introspect, A little moment to reflect On life's discrepancy-- Our puny stint so poorly done, The larger duties scarce begun-- And so may conscience culpable Suggest a remedy.

The Subway.

Oh, who in creation would fail to descend That wonderful hole in the ground?-- That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friend In sinuous fashion, seems never to end; While thunder and lightning abound.

Oh, who in creation would dare to go down That great subterranean hole-- The tunnel, the terror, the talk of the town, That gives to the city a mighty renown And a shaking as never before?

A serpent, a spider, its mouth at the top Where the flies are all buzzing about; Down into its maw where the populace drop, Who never know where they are going to stop, Or whether they'll ever get out.

Why is it, with millions of acres untrod Where never the ploughshare hath been, That man must needs burrow miles under the sod, As if to get farther and farther from God, And deeper and deeper in sin?

Come up out of Erebus into the day, There's plenty of room overhead; No boring or blasting of rocks in the way, No stratum of sticky, impervious clay-- All vacuous vapor instead.

Oh, give us a transit, a tube or an "el--", Not leagues from the surface below; As if we were never in Heaven to dwell, As if we were all being fired to--well, The place where we don't want to go!

The Apple Tree.

Has ever a tree from the earth upsprung Around whose body have children clung, Whose bounteous branches the birds among Have pecked the fruit, and chirped and sung-- Was ever a tree, or shall there be, So hardy, so sturdy, so good to see, So welcome a boon to the family, Like the pride of the farmer, the apple tree?

How he loves to be digging about its root, Or grafting the bud in the tender shoot, The daintiest palate that he may suit With the fairest and finest selected fruit. How he boasts of his Sweetings, so big for size; His delicate Greenings--made for pies; His Golden Pippins that take the prize, The Astrachans tempting, that tell no lies.

How he learns of the squirrel a thing or two That the wise little rodents always knew, And never forget or fail to do, Of laying up store for the winter through; So he hollows a space in the mellow ground Where leaves for lining and straw abound, And well remembers his apple mound When a day of scarcity comes around.

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