John Vance Cheney Poems

Not in the time of pleasure
Hope doth set her bow;
But in the sky of sorrow,
Over the vale of woe.
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The weasel thieves in silver suit,
   The rabbit runs in gray;
And Pan takes up his frosty flute
   To pipe the cold away.
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Wherever a green blade looks up,
A leaf lisps mystery,
Whereso a blossom holds its cup
A mist rings land or sea,
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SWIFT round and round yon yellow mound,
With grasses rank and pale,
Race stiffened leaves; a waking sound
Is on the autumn gale.
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As out of the dark the stars,
Broke forth the heavenly bars
Of passion strong,
The wild bird’s song,
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I think it better to believe,
And be even as the children, they
The children of the early day,
Who let the kindly dreams deceive,
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COULD I put up my hand and pluck a star,
I would give that power
To be one hour
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DAYS that come and go,
It is not worth the while;
Only one dawn I know,
The morning of her smile.
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I

THE BIRDS have hid, the winds are low,
The brake is awake, the grass aglow:
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OAK leaves are big as the mouse’s ear,
So, farmer, go plant. But the frost—
Beware! the witch o’ the year,
See that her palm be crossed.
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