Or is this deeper
darkness
.
American Poetry - 1922
.
I hear it, even in dreams. _
My Mouche, the other day as I lay here,
Slightly propped up upon this mattress-grave
In which I've been interred these few eight years,
I saw a dog, a little pampered slave,
Running about and barking. I would have given
Heaven could I have been that dog; to thrive
Like him, so senseless--and so much alive!
And once I called myself a blithe Hellene,
Who am too much in love with life to live.
(The shrug is pure Hebraic) . . . For what I've been,
A lenient Lord will tax me--and forgive.
_Dieu me pardonnera--c'est son metier. _
But this is jesting. There are other scandals
You haven't heard . . . Can it be dusk so soon?
Or is this deeper darkness . . . ? Is that you,
Mother? How did you come? Where are the candles? . . .
_Over my bed a strange tree gleams_--half filled
With stars and birds whose white notes glimmer through
Its seven branches now that all is stilled.
What? Friday night again and all my songs
Forgotten? Wait . . .
I hear it, even in dreams. _
My Mouche, the other day as I lay here,
Slightly propped up upon this mattress-grave
In which I've been interred these few eight years,
I saw a dog, a little pampered slave,
Running about and barking. I would have given
Heaven could I have been that dog; to thrive
Like him, so senseless--and so much alive!
And once I called myself a blithe Hellene,
Who am too much in love with life to live.
(The shrug is pure Hebraic) . . . For what I've been,
A lenient Lord will tax me--and forgive.
_Dieu me pardonnera--c'est son metier. _
But this is jesting. There are other scandals
You haven't heard . . . Can it be dusk so soon?
Or is this deeper darkness . . . ? Is that you,
Mother? How did you come? Where are the candles? . . .
_Over my bed a strange tree gleams_--half filled
With stars and birds whose white notes glimmer through
Its seven branches now that all is stilled.
What? Friday night again and all my songs
Forgotten? Wait . . .
