Maybe a few more short ones.
Here's a little poem.
I don't think it amounts to much,
but some of my litter of readers numbering 77
across the country.
I think Auden was wrong, though.
He said late in the '30s when, of course,
everything was depressing in America and especially
in cocktail lounges on 52nd Street
where he spent all his time.
But he said the only people that read me are pimply
young men in cafeterias.
I don't-- I hope I don't believe that.
Here's a-- this is a lullaby, oddly enough, occasioned
by the fact that years ago my daughter said to me you spend
a lot of time writing, but you never
write anything for me, which is the wonderful logic
of childhood I guess.
This is called just "Lullaby for a Daughter."
Not to be under any occasion read to a young child I
don't suppose.
"Go to sleep.
Night is a coal pit full of black water.
Night's a dark cloud full of warm rain.
Go to sleep.
Night is a flower resting from bees.
Night's a green sea swollen with fish.
Go to sleep.
Night is a white moon riding her mare.
Night's a bright sun burned to black cinder.
Go to sleep.
Night's come, cat's day, owl's day, star's feast of praise,
moon to reign over her sweet subject, dark."