daughter poem

day is done
with the meek, brown eyes
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
the agony of having too much power
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
when i was broke in london
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
the meadow was creeping
one sweetly solemn thought