VERSE

...And so, I am content to nestle here, And harp upon my fancy as the year Spins out, and feel the branches curling round, And bear old winter's whistle-it a sound Of music, too-and ready for another spring, Myself a whole and wholly natural thing.lf a whole and wholly natural thing...

...EDWARD PROFFITT OUR DECOR It surely is not a natural thing To have forsythia except in spring, Much less to have it spread across the walls And creep along the ceiling, where it crawls, Or seems to, into the ceiling light, And lends a sense of life to winter's night...

...But there it is, green stems and yellow blooms The handiwork of men in their own roomsThis one my study, where I sometimes sit Like a tired bird, who having quit The air, will settle far from reach or sight Within the thicket, resting from its flight...

...A rustling in my brain, my thought goes flying: It is for want of this that we are dying: For want of metaphor as nothing more Than metaphor, but that enough, a store To draw on in hard times, or a sudden find Of seedy semblances to feed the mind, Itself a living part of all it sees, Its pulses but a startled swarm of bees Remaking spring, its fashionings, a nest To settle in and coo, and then to rest...

...yet they would cover chair legs from fear Of metaphor, and thus deprived, not hear Such music as redeems the waning year...

...Hard Times lies open on my desk-the stern Victorians, like brass, pipe up and spurn My fancy, spring-like, shimmering, a harp Despite the winter's wind and the snow's sharp Tongue...