Full text: The little review (12 (1926), 1)

In a small room one year through, here he spelt 
The German Bible out by God’s good will. 
The birds piped ti-ti-tu, and as I went 
I thought how Katherine von Bora knelt 
At Grimma, idle she, waiting to melt 
Her surpliced heart in folds less straitly meant. 
As now, it was March then: Lo, he’ll fulfill 
Today his weighty task! Sing for content 
Ye birds! Pipe now! for now ’tis Love’s wing’s bent. 
Work sleeps; love wakes; sing and the glad air thrill! 
I am frightened Master, quivering with fear 
Half nude before the gloom bed, for one 
Persephone the moon wrested and won 
Against the black leaves and lo, she was here! 
And she looked weary and foredone 
With heaviness as seeming to have tried 
Many welcomes who once more in her ride 
Through the green host flees the pursuing sun. 
But oh she was strange with me and not near, 
Smooth browed as once, but glimpsed me up sliteyed 
And vanished silent. There was bitter pride 
Writ in her features! Come to me Master! 
The gayest of bright flowers 
(last year) 
could not have foretold how she 
the old potbellied woman 
with hands on hips 
would have this ravenhaired boy 
digging furiously beside 
the green willow, tossing 
the yellow soil with his spade 
hammering it cutting it down— 
Not work, this but a private 
assignation with Spring 
the voluptuous conception of 
a potful of tomatos 

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