Poem by Lesbia Harford

White Sunshine

The sun's my fire.
Golden, from a magnificence of blue,
Should be its hue.
But woolly clouds,
Like boarding-house old ladies, come and sit
In front of it.
White sunshine, then,
That has the frosty glimmer of white hair,
Freezes the air.
They must forget,
So self-absorbed are they, so very old,
That I'll be cold.

1. How funny it would be if dreamy I
2. O little year, cram full of duty
3. Machinist Talking
4. Each morning I pass on my way to work
5. Closing Time: Public Library

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