Failure poems/ page 1 of 20 /
Once more the mob is howling and half hidUnder the cupola of the dustbin lidMy child screams on: there is no obstacleSave Paul's edict and the seven bare hillsWhereby the television, and unrestBred in the church for centuries, can be stayedAnd for an hour I have walked and prayedBecause there is no room for my kind
Here on the wide waste lands,Take--child--these trembling hands,Though my life be as blank and waste,My days as sorely ungracedBy glimmer of green on the rimOf a sunless wilderness dim,As the wet fields barren and brown,As the fork of each sterile limbShorn of its lustrous crown
Without these aids, to be more serious,
Her power they hold had been precarious;
The eyes might have conspired her ruin,
And she not known what they were doing.
Foolish it had been and unkind
That they should see and she be blind.
WHAT though my words glance sideways from the thing