Monday, November 15, 2010

poems in the main stacks

I have, most delightfully, found a new and worthy occupation for that hour and forty-five minutes between Chapel and French class that I find so difficult to fill sometimes: I have discovered the poetry and poets section of the Wheaton College Library. Today was Sandburg, Longfellow, Dickinson, Frost, and that most perspicacious of wordsmiths: e.e. cummings.


I asked professors who teach the meaning of life to
tell me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work
of thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as
though I was trying to fool with them.
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
The Desplaines River
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians underneath the trees with
their women and children and a keg of beer
and an accordian.
-Carl Sandburg

"The Hill Wife"

It seems to me
I can't express my feelings, any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
-Robert Frost, excerpt

who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window; at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)
-e.e. cummings

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