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...ON THE INFLATION OF THE CURRENCY, 1919 by ROBERT FROST I LOOKED FOR LIFE AND DID A SHADOW SEE by JAMES GALVIN JAWEH AND ALLAH BATTLE by ALLEN GINSBERG DREAM LIFE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE SUICIDE by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON JONES'S PRIVATE ARGYMENT by SIDNEY LANIER |