Ernest O'Ferrall Poems

To be a poet is to bring
A furrowed brow, a piece of string,
And pen and ink and paper white Into a lonely room at night,
And, while the wingéd hours do fly,
...

These be the grim suburban days,
And, tho' in verse we frolic,
All soberly we go our ways
Writing our sweet commercial lays
...

Fragments of song around me lie,
Fair ballads of delight,
Sweet things an editor would buy
And treasure at first sight;
...

'I am the sun!' the poet yelled,
And danced upon the strand.
'I am the sun!' He tightly held
Some money in his hand;
...

A fierce, gray wind blows out of the north,
And the ghosts go forth in pairs.
The ARGUS rises in holy wrath
And the lodger falls down the stairs.
...