With Heart Untouched

Smug as a village that is unaware

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.