Sweetly, my mother! Go not yet away -- I have not told my story. Oh, not yet, With the fair past before me, can I lay My cheek upon the pillow to forget. O sweet, fair past, my twenty years of youth Thus thrown away, not fashioning a man; But fashioning a memory, forsooth! More feminine than follower of Pan. O God! let me not die for years and more! Fulfil Thyself, and I will live then surely Longer than a mere childhood. Now heart-sore, Weary, with being weary -- weary, purely. In dying, mother, I can find no pleasure Except in being near thee without measure. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SISTER LOU by STERLING ALLEN BROWN ST. ISAAC'S CHURCH, PETROGRAD by CLAUDE MCKAY BIRDS by NESTA HIGGINSON SKRINE THE PIKER'S RUBAIYAT by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS I BLOW YOU A KISS by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |