Under the Eaves
There is every evidence of an increasing interest in ATLANTIC poetry. As an incentive for writers yet unestablished, twice a year we set aside a number of pages in the ATLANTIC to be devoted to the work of young poets.
THE YOUNG POETS
BY HUGH FINN
Under the eaves the swallows argue and mutter;
Above in the sunlight the doves, adoze in the gutter,
Amphibrach fatly, like syrup that drips from a spoon;
Swung in their perilous willow they bubble and splutter,
The weaverbirds, helpless with joy of their green afternoon.
Above in the sunlight the doves, adoze in the gutter,
Amphibrach fatly, like syrup that drips from a spoon;
Swung in their perilous willow they bubble and splutter,
The weaverbirds, helpless with joy of their green afternoon.
Golden with pollen, sun-warm in the deep, cool flowers,
Sneezing in lily buds bumbles the bee through the hours;
Drunken and fragrant with nectar he blunders along —
Seems, as he burrs full of summer among all the towers
Of flowers, like summer itself, and the heart of its song.
Sneezing in lily buds bumbles the bee through the hours;
Drunken and fragrant with nectar he blunders along —
Seems, as he burrs full of summer among all the towers
Of flowers, like summer itself, and the heart of its song.