HE praised the greatness of the child I bore, As free from sickness, gifted with long days; And when he had said all, to comfort me About my heavenly fortune sang a hymn. And I then hoped that Phoebus' holy lips Could never lie in their prophetic art. But he who sang, who stood there at the feast, Who said these words, he is the very one Who slew my son. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEARING LEAVES AGAIN by DAVID IGNATOW TO ATLANTA UNIVERSITY - ITS FOUNDERS AND TEACHERS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON BEAUTY THAT IS NEVER OLD by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON HOLES BORED IN A WORKBAG BY THE SCISSORS by MARIANNE MOORE TWO SONNETS: 1 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |