I have a garment which is like a sieve Through which girls sift barley and wheat. In the dead of night I spread it out like a tent And a thousand stars pierce it with their gleams. Sitting inside, I see the moon and the Pleiades And on a good night, the great Orion himself. I get awfully tired of counting all the holes Which seem to me like the teeth of many saws. A piece of thread to sew up all the other threads Would be, to say the least, superfluous. If a fly landed on it with all his weight, The little idiot would hang by his foot, cursing. Dear God, do what you can to mend it. Make me a mantle of praise from these poor rags. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS by WALT WHITMAN FANCIES AT NAVESINK: 6 by WALT WHITMAN THE TRANSLATED WAY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS A FRAGMENT OF AN EPIC POEM, OCCASIONED BY THE LOSS OF A GAME by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD WHAT THE MOON KNOWS by RICHARD BEHM THE LOST LOVE by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE |