 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
138
UNUTTERABLE
There is a sorrow in the wind to-night
That haunteth me; she, like a penitent,
Heaps on rent hair the snow's thin ashes white,
And moans and moans, her swaying body bent.
That haunteth me; she, like a penitent,
Heaps on rent hair the snow's thin ashes white,
And moans and moans, her swaying body bent.
And Superstition, gliding softly, shakes
With wasted hands, that vainly grope and seek,
The rustling curtains; of each cranny makes
Wild, ghostly lips that, wailing, fain would speak.
With wasted hands, that vainly grope and seek,
The rustling curtains; of each cranny makes
Wild, ghostly lips that, wailing, fain would speak.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |