we had goldfish and they circled around and around in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes covering the picture window and my mother, always smiling, wanting us all to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!' and she was right: it's better to be happy if you can but...Read More
To-night the little girl-nun died. Her hands were laid Across her breast; the last sun tried To kiss her quiet braid; And where the little river cried, Her grave was made.The little girl-nun’s soul, in awe, Went silently To where her brother Christ she saw, Under the Living Tree; He sighed, and his face...Read More
Three days I heard them grieve when I lay dead, (It was so strange to me that they should weep!) Tall candles burned about me in the dark, And a great crucifix was on my breast, And a great silence filled the lonesome room.I heard one whisper, “Lo! the...Read More
You say I touch the barberries As a lover his mistress? What a curious fancy! One must be delicate, you know— They have bitter thorns. You say my hand is hurt? Oh no, it was my breast, It was crushed and pressed. I mean—why yes, of course, of course— There is a bright drop—isn’t...
Ah stern cold man, How can you lie so relentless hard While I wash you with weeping water! Ah face, carved hard and cold, You have been like this, on your guard Against me, since death began.You masquerader! How can you shame to act this part Of unswerving indifference to me? It is...Read More
Out of me unworthy and unknown The vibrations of deathless music; “With malice toward none, with charity for all.” Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions, And the beneficent face of a nation Shining with justice and truth. I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds, Beloved in life...Read More
Annie Shore, ’twas, sang last night Down in South End saloon; A tawdry creature in the light, Painted cheeks, eyes over bright, Singing a dance-hall tune.I’d be forgetting Annie’s singing— I’d not have thought again— But for the thing that cried and fluttered Through all the shrill refrain: Youth crying above foul words,...
We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them:— Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their...Read More