The Asses' Out-House

Three flies lay sleeping

In a cobweb shroud,

Dreaming of molasses, of jam,

And of heaps of offal.

The fourth swung by his ear.

He was a withering fokker

On its last tail spin.

His body was bluebottle;

His wings were grey

As his cobweb shroud,

Stitched with prism hues.

He was dreaming of old bones

On which to rear his young.

TO c-

£

If a clear delight visits you

Of an uncertain afternoon,

When you thought the time

For new delights was over for that day,

Say to yourself, who rule many a lost

Moment in this shadowy domain,

Saving it from its dusty grey perdition,

Say to yourself that is a flash

Of lightning from a so affectionate west,

Where the clear sky, that you know, resides.

The rainbow has crossed the desert once again.

I took the blade of bliss and notched it

In a roseate place.

It shed a crimson stream-

That was our flush of joy.

It

They will come

In the way they always come,