William De Witt Snodgrass
William De Witt Snodgrass Poems
|1.||Matisse: 'The Red Studio'||9/30/2015|
|2.||Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring (1 April 1945)||1/3/2012|
|3.||Vuillard: “the Mother And Sister Of The Artist”||1/3/2012|
|5.||The Campus On The Hill||1/3/2012|
|6.||The Poet Ridiculed By Hysterical Academics||1/3/2012|
|8.||A Locked House||1/3/2012|
|9.||Who Steals My Good Name||1/3/2012|
|10.||Magda Goebbels (30 April 1945)||1/3/2012|
|14.||After Experience Taught Me ...||1/3/2012|
|15.||Monet: “les Nymphéas”||1/3/2012|
Child of my winter, born
When the new fallen soldiers froze
In Asia's steep ravines and fouled the snows,
When I was torn
By love I could not still,
By fear that silenced my cramped mind
To that cold war where, lost, I could not find
My peace in my will,
All those days we could keep
Your mind a landscape of new snow
Where the chilled tenant-farmer finds, below,
His fields asleep
In their smooth covering, white
As quilts to warm the resting bed
Of birth or pain, spotless as paper spread
For me to write,
And thinks: Here lies ...
The green catalpa tree has turned
All white; the cherry blooms once more.
In one whole year I haven't learned
A blessed thing they pay you for.
The blossoms snow down in my hair;
The trees and I will soon be bare.
The trees have more than I to spare.
The sleek, expensive girls I teach,