Louise Bogan

She has attained the permanence She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning. Untended stalks blow over her Even and swift, like young men running. Always in the heart she loved Others had lived,—she heard their laughter. She lies where none has lain before, Where certainly none will follow after.

To me, one silly task is like another. I bare the shambling tricks of lust and pride. This flesh will never give a child its mother,— Song, like a wing, tears through my breast, my side, And madness chooses out my voice again, Again. I am the chosen no hand saves: The shrieking heaven lifted over men, Not the dumb earth, wherein they set their graves.