By Amos Russel Wells

I like the little poems
That hide in little books,
Waiting for little snatches
In little, cozy nooks
They mind me of the robins,
With fragrant whiffs of song,
Far dearer than Beethoven,—
But that is very wrong!
Perhaps if life in ordered
Continuance would run,
Not now a bit of shadow
And now a bit of sun,—
Perhaps I might, if living
Were epic-long and wide,
Care less for little poems
In little books that hide.