Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PICTURE-BOOK, by ALICE CARY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: The black walnut logs in the chimney Last Line: And bearing the gold on his back. Subject(s): Family Life | ||||||||
THE black walnut-logs in the chimney Made ruddy the house with their light, And the pool in the hollow was covered With ice like a lid, -- it was night; And Roslyn and I were together, -- I know now the pleased look he wore, And the shapes of the shadows that checkered The hard yellow planks of the floor; And how, when the wind stirred the candle, Affrighted they ran from its gleams, And crept up the wall to the ceiling Of cedar, and hid by the beams. There were books on the mantel-shelf, dusty, And shut, and I see in my mind, The pink-colored primer of pictures We stood on our tiptoes to find. We opened the leaves where a camel Was seen on a sand-covered track, A-snuffing for water, and bearing A great bag of gold on his back; And talked of the free flowing rivers A tithe of his burden would buy, And said, when the lips of the sunshine Had sucked his last water-skin dry; With thick breath and mouth gaping open, And red eyes a-strain in his head, His bones would push out as if buzzards Had picked him before he was dead! Then turned the leaf over, and finding A palace that banners made gay, Forgot the bright splendor of roses That shone through our windows in May; And sighed for the great beds of princes, While pillows for him and for me Lay soft among ripples of ruffles As sweet and as white as could be. And sighed for their valleys, forgetting How warmly the morning sun kissed Our hills, as they shrugged their green shoulders Above the white sheets of the mist. Their carpets of dyed wool were softer, We said, than the planks of our floor, Forgetting the flowers that in summer Spread out their gold mats at our door. The storm spit its wrath in the chimney, And blew the cold ashes aside, And only one poor little faggot Hung out its red tongue as it died, When Roslyn and I through the darkness Crept off to our shivering beds, A thousand vague fancies and wishes Still wildly astir in our heads: Not guessing that we, too, were straying In thought on a sand-covered track, Like the camel a-dying for water, And bearing the gold on his back. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY AUNT ELLA MAE by MICHAEL S. HARPER THE GOLDEN SHOVEL by TERRANCE HAYES LIZARDS AND SNAKES by ANTHONY HECHT THE BOOK OF A THOUSAND EYES: I LOVE by LYN HEJINIAN MY LIFE: AS FOR WE WHO LOVE TO BE ASTONISHED by LYN HEJINIAN CHILD ON THE MARSH by ANDREW HUDGINS MY MOTHER'S HANDS by ANDREW HUDGINS PLAYING DEAD by ANDREW HUDGINS THE GLASS HAMMER by ANDREW HUDGINS A SPINSTER'S STINT by ALICE CARY |
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