A Magazine of verse

I

All the days pavement has been black
with rain , but in our warm brightly-lit
Room , praise God,
I kept to saying myself,
And saying not a word,
Amen you Answered,

II

From my window I could not see the moon,
And yet it was shining:
The yard among the houses----
snow upon it----
And oblong in the darkness

III

Among the heaps of brick the plaster lies
A girder ,itself among the rubbish

IV
Rooted Among roofs , their smoke among the clouds,
Factory chimneys---our ceedar of India