William E. Dickinson Poems

My easel is a word, a phase
My pen is color blue
The brush applies a tinge, or
accents
...

The infinite depths and twists
Of the unhearing of this world

Those whose faculties remain intact
...

The morning dew was rising
As sun so bright and warm
Settled on the mind as peace
God let his creatures swarm
...

The winds of time wash over us
as the breezes of history consume
In the air the heavenly father watches
In the end he comes and removes
...