John Vance Cheney Poems

The weasel thieves in silver suit,
   The rabbit runs in gray;
And Pan takes up his frosty flute
   To pipe the cold away.
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Not in the time of pleasure
Hope doth set her bow;
But in the sky of sorrow,
Over the vale of woe.
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NATURE reads not our labels, “great” and “small”;
Accepts she one and all
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PUT out thy torch, O watcher by the dead,
Unto the darkness give its own;
Silence and darkness - they alone
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'WHITHER, pilgrims, whither bound,
Passing slowly with no sound?'
One by one they journey by,
Gliding, gliding silently;
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THE SKILFUL listener, he, methinks, may hear
The grass blades clash in sunny field together,
The roses kissing, and the lily, whether
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DOST deem him weak that owns his strength is tried?
Nay, we may safely lean on him that grieves:
The pine has immemorially sighed,
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WHITHER leads this pathway, little one?—
It runs just on and on, is never done.
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Who drives the horses of the sun
   Shall lord it but a day;
Better the lowly deed were done,
   And kept the humble way.
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Wherever a green blade looks up,
A leaf lisps mystery,
Whereso a blossom holds its cup
A mist rings land or sea,
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