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.

"Happiness"

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