Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/89

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
A fear of old discarded fears, of daysThat cried out at irrevocable ways.I cower for my own old cowardice—For hours that beat upon the wind's broad breastWith hands as impotent as leaves are: thisRobs my new hour of rest.
I thought my pride had covered long agoAll 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 meTo an incomplete oblivion,Yet not to the certain dignityOf death. (They cannot even dieWho have not lived.)Who have not lived.)The hungry jawsOf 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-reapThe burden of untasted breaths.(Who has not waked may not yet sleep.)
Poetry, A Magazine of VerseHazel Hall

74

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.