I DON'T blame the kettle drums -- they are hungry. And the snare drums -- I know what they want -- they are empty too. And the harring booming bass drums -- they are hungriest of all. ..... The howling spears of the Northwest die down. The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song. A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE STONE by HAYDEN CARRUTH FRAGMENTARY BLUE by ROBERT FROST THE COLOR SERGEANT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON FROM THE AGES WITH A SMILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALBERT SCHIRDING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |