Of sin behind locked doors, she sings her songs
Unheeding; fails to see the molten glare
Of atoms bursting; and ignores the wrongs
Of war's uprooted children, scarred and thin.
She purrs a few small nothings in the ears
Of neighbor folk, and then proceeds to spin
Her verses from the shallow froth of years;
And smiles, well pleased with quick and slattern form.
"A twitting little bird," she calls herself--
Too ponderous she finds the sonnet norm,
And rhyming wearies her; on her book-shelf
The classics gather dust. She sings of God
Yet walks with heart untouched upon His sod.
