30

The pedigree of honey

Does not concern the bee;

A clover, any time, to him

Is aristocracy.

--Emily Dickinson

Published in Poems for Youth, 1918

The Horse

As I pranced around the darkened meadow,

The one I had once called home.

I felt a black wave of sadness,

As my foals had left me to roam.

So many dreams that had not come true,

I felt them in that wave.

But the lovely meadow was no more,

For the men sent it to its grave.

It used to be so bright, so happy,

With not a drop of sadness.

The flowers numbered more than many,

The grass was sweet and lasting.

But now the men had found it.

They dug out all the vivid flowers,

They pulled the earth up by its roots.

The sweet grass was made all sour.

I dance through it once again,

The last time I would be here.

Then I shall leave for the sky,

My foals await me there.

~Helen, Grade 6, Thurston Middle School