by Zora Bernice May Cross
How strangely lone unto myself I grow,
Listening and looking for I know not what;
Turning my head with terror cold and hot
At wandering whispers of a music low!
Familiar pieces of my being flow
Far, far away, to thymy hill and plot,
While chained to patience in this close-shut spot
I sit apart from everything I know.
O Love, I fear the loneness of my limbs
Leaning to nothing to their solitude.
Draw up the blinds and let the stars rush in,
The mournful moon and all the air she swims.
I would not languish in my mother-mood
While just without earth makes her old, mad din.
Last updated September 18, 2015