Art And Life
Lola Ridge
When Art goes bounding, lean, Up hill-tops fired green To pluck a rose for life. Life like a broody hen Cluck-clucks him back again. But when Art, imbecile, Sits old and chill On sidings shaven clean, And counts his clustering Dead daisies on a string With witless laughter…. Then like a new Jill Toiling up a hill Life scrambles after.
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