THROW the blue ball above the little twigs of the tree-tops, And cast the yellow ball straight at the buzzing stars. All our life is a flinging of colored balls to impossible distances. And in the end what have we? A tired arm-a tip-tilted nose. Ah! Well! Give me the purple one. Wouldn't it be a fine thing if I could make it stick On top of the Methodist steeple? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BRIDGE: 7. THE TUNNEL by HAROLD HART CRANE THE IVY GREEN by CHARLES DICKENS UNDER THE WHARF by IDA COLE BARTLATT RUTGERS COLLEGE HYMN by LOUIS BEVIER JR. FIRST RHYMES by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |