Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/126

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A RHYME OUT OF MOTLEY
"I grasped a thread of silver; it cut me to the bone—I reached for an apple; it was bleak as a stone—I reached for a heart, and touched a raw blade—And this was the bargain God had madeFor a little gift of speech
Set a cubit higher than the common reach,A debt running on until the fool is dead."
Carve a Pater Noster to put at his headAs a curse or a prayer,And leave him there.
The Literary ReviewAmy LowellN. Y. Evening Post


A GRAVE SONG
I've a pocketful of emptiness for you, my Dear.I've a heart like a loaf was baked yesteryear,I've a mind like ashes spilt a week ago,I've a hand like a rusty, cracked corkscrew.
Can you flourish on nothing and find it good?Can you make petrifaction do for food?Can you warm yourself at ashes on a stone?Can you give my hand the cunning which has gone?
If you can, I will go and lay me downAnd kiss the edge of your purple gown.I will rise and walk with the sun on my head.Will you walk with me, will you follow the dead?
The New RepublicAmy Lowell

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