Petit, the PoetSeeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick,Tick, tick, tick, like mites in a quarrel—Faint iambics that the full breeze wakens—But the pine tree makes a symphony thereof.Triolets, villanelles, rondels, rondeaus,Ballades by the score with the same old thought:The snows and the roses of yesterday are vanished;And what is love but a rose that fades?Life all around me here in the village:Tragedy, comedy, valor and truth,Courage, constancy, heroism, failure—All in the loom, and oh what patterns!Woodlands, meadows, streams and rivers—Blind to all of it all my life long.Triolets, villanelles, rondels, rondeaus,Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick, Tick, tick, tick, what little iambics,While Homer and Whitman roared in the pines?
Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick,Tick, tick, tick, like mites in a quarrel—Faint iambics that the full breeze wakens—But the pine tree makes a symphony thereof.Triolets, villanelles, rondels, rondeaus,Ballades by the score with the same old thought:The snows and the roses of yesterday are vanished;And what is love but a rose that fades?Life all around me here in the village:Tragedy, comedy, valor and truth,Courage, constancy, heroism, failure—All in the loom, and oh what patterns!Woodlands, meadows, streams and rivers—Blind to all of it all my life long.Triolets, villanelles, rondels, rondeaus,Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick, Tick, tick, tick, what little iambics,While Homer and Whitman roared in the pines?