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The three-toed tree-toad
Sings his sweet ode
To the moon;
The funny bunny
And his honey
Trip in tune.
--
Nocturne

 

Arthur Guiterman

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I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
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Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
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A tree ascended there. Oh pure transendence!
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The winter moon becomes a companion, the heart of the priest, sunk in meditation upon religion and philosophy, there in the mountain hall, is engaged in a delicate interplay and exchange with the moon; and it is this of which the poet sings.

 

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I am the king! I am the king! I am the king!
One dead marine through the hatch,
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Her mouth is a honey-blossom,
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