Three Poems
by
Alan Fuchs
NURSERY RHYME
When silver boys come out to play
The moon is tumbled in the hay.
When golden girls stay in to cook
The sun is pushed into the brook.
WITH A PRESSED FLOWER
The huddling trample of a drove of sheep
Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases
In
dust on the other side.
Suddenly all the sky is hid
As with the shutting of a lid.
And he inherits soft white hands
And tender flesh that fears the cold
Nor dares to wear a garment old.
In
his tower sat the poet
Gazing on the roaring sea
"Take this rose," he signed, "and throw it... "
Worn and footsore was the prophet
When he gained the holy hill;
"God has left the Earth" he murmured.
How they went home together through the wood,
And how all life seen focussed into one
Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze the blood
What need to tell?
By no allurement can the soul be won
From brooding o'er the weary creep of time
(So goes the tale) beneath the altar there
Meanwhile he dared not go and steal away.
Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave
