Harold Monro, 'Impressions'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Impressions

He's something in the city. Who shall say
His fortune was not honorably won?
Few people can afford to give away
As he, or help the poor as he has done.

Neat in his habits, temperate in his life:
Oh, who shall dare his character besmirch?
He scarcely ever quarrels with his wife,
And every Sabbath strictly goes to church.

He helps the village club, and in the town
Attends parochial meetings once a week,
Pays for each purchase ready-money down:
Is anyone against him?—Who will speak?

There is a widow somewhere in the north,
On whom slow ruin gradually fell,
While she, believing that her God was wroth,
Suffered without a word—or she might tell.

And there’s a beggar somewhere in the west,
Whose fortune vanished gradually away:
Now he but drags his limbs in horror lest
Starvation feed on them—or he might say.

And there are children stricken with disease,
Too ignorant to curse him, or too weak.
In a true portrait of him all of these
Must figure in the background—they shall speak.

By Harold Monro

Noah's Daughters, by Virginia Mohlere

[elenbarathi.livejournal.com]

Noah's Daughters

Two of every kind went in the door --
seven of the clean beasts
plants
our mother
our brothers and their wives.
"Fetch the cooking pots,"
our father said to us,
clouds roiling
wind high.

From the front of our house
we saw him close the door.
The two of our kind left
outside.
We ran.
We hit the door with our fists.
As the wind turned colder,
we hit the door
and called our father.
As the sky blackened
we hit the door
and cried for our mother.
As the rain came
we hit the door
and called our father's God.
We got no answer.

( Water covered our feet )