And grass to cut that overruns my paths,
And there are books, these long and short shelves full,
The old to bind again, the new to cut
The leaves of, men to greet with stirring words
Of sharp retort: oh, these be yet to sift
Into the crevices of thought where once
Your acrid tongue and sharpened look at life
Made common things lose boredom, made ways glow,
And fixed stars shine upon a windy night.
__Margaret E. Haughawout.
Margaret E. Haughawout
(Pittsburg, Kansas: __. 1929)