Treasure Island

Harry Crosby

(4 June 1898 - 10 December 1929 / Boston, Massachusetts)

The Golden Gourd


What chance have snakes upon an asphalt road
When giant limousines go gliding by,
Of courtesans resolved to gratify
The lust of lovers seeking new abode?
I do not envy the unfriended toad
Nor airships falling from a marble sky
Nor mothers listening to their children cry
What chance have blades of grass on being mowed?

And yet the unmolested Sun rolls on
A ship of gold among the silver clouds
Or else a lady wrapped in silver shrouds
to mock the crescent moon's pale skeleton.

Which strengthens me to live with heart assured
For I have drunken from the golden gourd.

Submitted: Tuesday, April 24, 2012

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  • Brian Jani (7/13/2014 3:46:00 PM)

    wow you write poetry about abstract tropics and you are good at what you do.bravo! ! (Report) Reply

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