Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/89
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A fear of old discarded fears, of days
That cried out at irrevocable ways.
I cower for my own old cowardice—
For hours that beat upon the wind's broad breast
With hands as impotent as leaves are: this
Robs my new hour of rest.
That cried out at irrevocable ways.
I cower for my own old cowardice—
For hours that beat upon the wind's broad breast
With hands as impotent as leaves are: this
Robs my new hour of rest.
I thought my pride had covered long ago
All the old scars, like broken twigs in snow;
I thought to luxuriate in rich decay,
As some far-seeing tree upon a hill;
But, startled into shame for an old day,
I find that I am but a coward still.
All the old scars, like broken twigs in snow;
I thought to luxuriate in rich decay,
As some far-seeing tree upon a hill;
But, startled into shame for an old day,
I find that I am but a coward still.
FLASH
I am less of myself and more of the sun;
The beat of life is wearing me
To an incomplete oblivion,
Yet not to the certain dignity
Of death. (They cannot even die
Who have not lived.)
Who have not lived.)The hungry jaws
Of space snap at my unlearned eye,
And time tears in my flesh like claws.
If I am not life's, if I am not death's,
Out of chaos I must re-reap
The burden of untasted breaths.
(Who has not waked may not yet sleep.)
The beat of life is wearing me
To an incomplete oblivion,
Yet not to the certain dignity
Of death. (They cannot even die
Who have not lived.)
Who have not lived.)The hungry jaws
Of space snap at my unlearned eye,
And time tears in my flesh like claws.
If I am not life's, if I am not death's,
Out of chaos I must re-reap
The burden of untasted breaths.
(Who has not waked may not yet sleep.)
Poetry, A Magazine of VerseHazel Hall
74