Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | July 7, 2008

POEM OF THE DAY: Yet Do I Marvel

by Countee Cullen (1903 – 1946).

 

Yet Do I Marvel

 

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind

And did He stoop to quibble could tell why

The little buried mole continues blind,

Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,

Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus                            5

Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare

If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus

To struggle up a never-ending stair.

Inscrutable His ways are, and immune

To catechism by a mind too strewn                                    10

With petty cares to slightly understand

What awful brain compels His awful hand.

Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:

To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

 

Notes:

http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/a_f/cullen/yetdoimarvel.htm

http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/ccullen.htm


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