A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda’s sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What’s a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then–
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Poem – A Word To Husbands

To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.

Poem – Always Marry An April Girl

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true —
I love April, I love you.

Poem –  The Romantic Age

This one is entering 

her teens,Ripe for sentimental scenes,

Has picked a gangling unripe male,

Sees herself in bridal veil,

Presses lips and tosses head,

Declares she’s not too young to wed,

Informs you pertly you forget

Romeo and Juliet.

Do not argue, do not shout;

Remind her how that one turned out. 

Poem – The People Upstairs

The people upstairs all practise ballet

Their living room is a bowling alley

Their bedroom is full of conducted tours.

Their radio is louder than yours,

They celebrate week-ends all the week.

When they take a shower, your ceilings leak.

They try to get their parties to mix

By supplying their guests with Pogo sticks,

And when their fun at last abates,

They go to the bathroom on roller skates.

I would love the people upstairs wondrous

If instead of above us, they just lived under us. 

Poem – Oh To be Odd

Hypochondriacs

Spend  the winter at the bottom of Florida and the summer on top of

the Adirondriacs.

You go to Paris and live on champagne wine and cognac

If you’re dipsomognac.

If you’re a manic-depressive

You don’t go anywhere where you won’t be cheered up, and people say

“There, there!” if your bills are excessive.

But you stick around and work day and night and night and day with

your nose to the sawmill.

If you’re nawmill.
Note: Dipsomaniac — alcoholic 

Poem – No You be a Lone Eagle

I find it very hard to be fair-minded

About people who go around being air-minded.

I just can’t see any fun

In soaring up up up into the sun

When the chances are still a fresh cool orchid to a paper geranium

That you’ll unsoar down down down onto your (to you) invaluable

cranium.

I know the constant refrain

About how safer up in God’s trafficless heaven than in an automobile

or a train

But …

My God, have you ever taken a good look at a strut?

Then that one about how you’re in Boston before you can say antidis-

establishmentarianism

So that preferring to take five hours by rail is a pernicious example of

antiquarianism.

At least when I get on the Boston train I have a good chance of landing

in the South Station

And not in that part of the daily press which is reserved for victims of

aviation.

Then, despite the assurance that aeroplanes are terribly comfortable I

notice that when you are railroading or automobiling

You don’t have to take a paper bag along just in case of a funny feeling.

It seems to me that no kind of depravity

Brings such speedy retribution as ignoring the law of gravity.

Therefore nobody could possibly indict me for perjury

When I swear that I wish the Wright brothers had gone in for silver

fox farming or tree surgery.