Explore "Petit, the Poet" by Edgar Lee Masters on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick, / Tick, tick, tick, like mites in a quarrel --
Faint iambics that the full breeze wakens --
But the pine tree makes a symphony thereof.
Triolets, villanelles, rondels, rondeaus, / Ballades by the score with the same old thought:
The snows and the roses of yesterday are vanished;
And what is love but a rose that fades?
Life all around me here in the village:
Tragedy, comedy, valor and truth, / Courage, constancy, heroism, failure --
All in the loom, and oh what patterns!
Woodlands, meadows, streams and rivers --
Blind to all of it all my life long.
Triolets, villanelles, rondels, rondeaus, / Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick, / Tick, tick, tick, what little iambics, / While Homer and Whitman roared in the pines?