John Gould Fletcher

Lincoln

I Like a gaunt, scraggly pine Which lifts its head above the mournful sandhills; And patiently, through dull years of bitter silence, Untended and uncared for, starts to grow. Ungainly, labouring, huge, The wind

Spring

At the first hour, it was as if one said, “Arise.” At the second hour, it was as if one said, “Go forth.” And the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyes Sank below