YOUR bow swept over a string, and a long low note quivered to the air. (A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect learning to suck milk.) Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering and wild. (All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon in the hills with their lovers.) | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAMPUS SONNET: MAY MORNING by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET LUNCH AT A CLUB by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE SLAVE TRADE: VIEW FROM THE MIDDLE PASSAGE by CLARENCE MAJOR THE ARABIAN SHAWL by KATHERINE MANSFIELD THE CANDLE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |