I often spend week-ends in heaven, And so I know him well. Most times he is too busy thinking things To talk; But then, I like his still aloofness And superior ease. I can't imagine him in armor, or in uniform, Or blowing like a windy Caesar Across the fields of Europe, Or snooping in my mind To find what I am thinking, Or being jealous of the darling idols I have made. If ever that slim word -- aristocrat -- Belonged to anyone, it is to God. You should see him steadying the wings Of great thoughts starting out On flight -- Very like a scientist trying a machine. Patrician, cool, in a colored coat Rather like a mandarin's; Silver sandals -- quite a picture! I can't see him Fluttering in wrathful haste, Or dancing like a fool. I don't go there often -- Only when I'm at my best. I save up things: Pictures of the sea wild with white foam, Stories of engines beating through the clouds, News of earth in storm and sun, Some new songs -- the best. He's fond of being entertained With what I choose to tell him of myself -- Very kind about tomorrow, Indifferent of yesterday. He's like that -- God in his heaven -- alone. I know, for I made him, put him there Myself. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PARASITICS: TO CERTAIN POETS by CONRAD AIKEN CONTRA MORTEM: THE WHEEL OF BEING II by HAYDEN CARRUTH RETROSPECT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MANHATTAN, 1609 by EDWIN MARKHAM THE CHANT OF THE VULTURES by EDWIN MARKHAM BOOTH'S PHILIPPI by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |