G. Frank Goodpasture

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Poems

Bars May Tire

Last night the tide rose up the shore And washed about old logs long dried. Fresh weeds came in; the sea wind bore Loud threats of doom; a curlew cried. And now at daybreak mists inspire Live fancies round each sudden form, For well I know that bars may tire Of toys they took that last, great storm!

G. Frank Goodpasture

An Invitation

You know these wooded acres . . . why not choose Their shade to rest you in? You love the smell Of spring’s first trilliums, could always tell The hour the wood-hare feeds! I may not lose The sure, sweet faith that we shall meet again; For this is certain, you will never find More symmetry in ferns, so spiced a wind. So I shall wait beneath this spruce; and when Your truant feet come lightly down the glade I’ll watch remembrance light your eager eyes At each frail bud, at feathery moss that lies On velvet couch; then forth into the shade Of empyrean pattern-tracings we will roam As thrushes fly, yet deem this wood our home.

Shadows

The first poems in full

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Shadows

I never brushed aside the leaves That stemmed a mountain spring But came the shadow of a dread Age-old unreasoning, That I had turned my helpless back To claws that followed on my track.

I never crossed the bar at dawn Where waves rose thin and green And watched an old seal close aboard, Distorted by the screen, But grim Cerberus stood once more And growled before the nether door!

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