Nor do I try to keep a garden, only. An avocado in a glass of water --Roots pallid, gemmed with air. And later, When the small gilt leaves have grown. Fleshy and green, I let them die, yes, yes, And start another. I am earth's no less.
James MerrillAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: March 3, 1926
- Died: February 6, 1995
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With the ferrule of his walking-stick Denis began to scratch the boar's long bristly back. The animal moved a little so as to bring himself within easier range of the instrument that evoked in him such delicious sensations; then he stood stock still, softly grunting his contentment. The mud of years flaked off his sides in a grey powdery scurf. "What a pleasure it is," said Denis, "to do somebody a kindness. I believe I enjoy scratching this pig quite as much as he enjoys being scratched....
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Singing is my pleasure, but not in church, for the parson said the gargoyles must remain on the outside, not seek room in the choir stalls. So I sing inside the mountain of my flesh, and my voice is as slender as a reed and my voice has no lard in it. When I sing the dogs sit quiet and people who pass in the night stop their jabbering and discontent and think of other times, when they were happy. And I sing of other times, when I was happy, though I know that these are figments of my mind and...
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