Always the dead seem unsuccessful: as though they had spoiled their photos they smile with second meanings into our pain: so, after all, it was that they were after. The day they died a mother added another arch to her church, now she will look on victory as something bright, but secular. And where in the cleanest landscape we, hardly known to ourselves, are running to some excitement like the centre of light— a child has turned, a hole in his head. The eyes where we stood are dark and the low earth, with careful science, begins to remove all traces of those in whom we might have been justified. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FINE DAY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD CONTRA MORTEM: THE BEING AS MOMENT by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE EXISTING POOL by HAYDEN CARRUTH POETS ARE BORN NOT MADE by ROBERT FROST FREE FANTASIA ON JAPANESE THEMES by AMY LOWELL ON A YOUNG LADY'S SIXTH ANNIVERSARY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |