THROW the blue ball above the little twigs of the tree-tops, And cast the yellow ball straight at the buzzing stars. All our life is a flinging of colored balls to impossible distances. And in the end what have we? A tired arm-a tip-tilted nose. Ah! Well! Give me the purple one. Wouldn't it be a fine thing if I could make it stick On top of the Methodist steeple? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PHANTOM SHIP by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE POET AND HIS BOOK by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER by WALT WHITMAN MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA by HENRY CLAY WORK THE WITHERED ROSE by PHILIP AYRES |