I DON'T blame the kettle drums -- they are hungry. And the snare drums -- I know what they want -- they are empty too. And the harring booming bass drums -- they are hungriest of all. ..... The howling spears of the Northwest die down. The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song. A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OFFICE PARTY: DISTAFF VIEW by KAREN SWENSON WITH A COPY OF HERRICK by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE JOHN PELHAM by JAMES RYDER RANDALL TO THE NECROPHILE by WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG WORLDLY PLACE by MATTHEW ARNOLD SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 9. WHEN by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |