What light and air are to the things which grow, What rain is to the parched and heat-dried field, So in each life is humor which we know Though only few its pointed shafts can wield. It adds unto our daily lives a zest, Gives piquancy to e'en the sluggish thought. It is delightful when it is at best, And makes its master by the world besought. I sometimes wonder if the angels use This sixth sense of the finite, earth-born soul, And if at times they e'er have deigned to choose To notice wit which seems to us so droll. I wonder if the Calvinistic hell Has funny sprites who makes its inmate's lot A cheerful one, in spite of where they dwell, By humorous quips of some Icelandic spot. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SAPPHIC SUICIDE NOTE by JAMES GALVIN GETHSEMANE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MATE (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALONZO CHURCHILL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TUNICA PALLIO PROPRIOR by MARIANNE MOORE THEY PRAISE THE SUN by JOHN CROWE RANSOM |