By ROBERT P. TRISTRAM COFFIN
SNOW lies deep. But hens are wise —
They measure the sun with round gilt eyes,
They see it’s higher. They commence
To seethe inside with an immense
Growing conviction that it would
Be timely to think of motherhood.
First the tender trial notes,
Then motherhood wells up their throats;
T he hymns boil over in hot streams,
The henhouse reels with soprano screams.
The master of the harem blushes
To his eyes, the red blood rushes
Down his chin appendages,
He walks his wing in ecstasies.
Love is all. lie scorns the corn,
He shuts both eyes, he blows his horn.
He hardly touches a single toe
Where bright snakes of melted snow
Run between the cuneiforms
Of the hen-tracks. High new storms
Of mother passion mount and rise
Where hens stand in vast surprise
And eye the sudden still-warm eggs
In the straw’ between their legs.
One cackle sets off a shrill new,
One hysteric raises two.
Winter never can hold white ground
Against these red combs, this hot sound;
Though he has a snow-sack full of tricks,
The earth will soon be snowed with chicks!