 | New poems by Madison Cawein |  |
THE SCARECROW
Here is a tale for prelates and for parsons:There was a scarecrow once, a thing of tatters
And sticks and straw, to whom men trusted matters
Of weighty moment—murders, thefts and arsons.
None saw he was a scarecrow. Every worship
And honour his. Men set him in high places,
And ladies primped their bodies, tinged their faces,
And kneeled to him as slaves to some great Sirship.
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Our jackstraw friend, and the sweet air of heaven
Knew him no more, and was no longer tainted.
Then learnèd doctors put him in their theses:
The State set up his statue: and thought, even
As thought the Church, perhaps he should be sainted.
| New poems by Madison Cawein | |