Art And Life
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.
poem by Lola Ridge
Added by Poetry Lover
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