@3If a leaf rustled, she would start: And yet she died, a year ago. How had so frail a thing the heart To journey where she trembled so? And do they turn and turn in fright, Those little feet, in so much night?@1 The light above the poet's head Streamed on the page and on the cloth, And twice and thrice there buffeted On the black pane a white-winged moth: 'T was Annie's soul that beat outside And "Open, open, open!" cried: "I could not find the way to God; There were too many flaming suns For signposts, and the fearful road Led over wastes where millions Of tangled comets hissed and burned -- I was bewildered and I turned. "O, it was easy then! I knew Your window and no star beside. Look up, and take me back to you!" -- He rose and thrust the window wide. 'T was but because his brain was hot With rhyming; for he heard her not. But poets polishing a phrase Show anger over trivial things; And as she blundered in the blaze Towards him, on ecstatic wings, He raised a hand and smote her dead; Then wrote "@3That I had died instead!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SISTER OF SORROW: 3. WEDDING-EVE by GORDON BOTTOMLEY THE ROSARY by CHARLOTTE A. BRADSHAW GIFTS by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT AN UNPRAISED PICTURE by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON A CAPTAIN OF THE PRESS-GANG by BLISS CARMAN ROSY-POSY by ANN AUGUSTA GRAY CARTER |