Moods

Moods

The Dawn is a pale, cold nun
    with a silver rosary,
And saint am I in the morning,
     who would not be?

But a man of the world am I,
     Careless and debonair
When the gypsy Dusk comes out of the west
     With a star in her hair.

~ Nellie Burget Miller

What Is Poetry

What Is Poetry

The basic language of the soul,
Through which dumb life is made
At last, articulate;
The strangled cry
Of world-democracy, new-born,
With wide-eyed vision, unafraid;
          Rhythmic stir
               Of the primal clod,
          To follow the flute-call
               Up to God.

~ Nellie Burget Miller

From my mother's poetry notebook