Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LITTLE CROSS, by EDITH AGNEW



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THE LITTLE CROSS, by            
First Line: Here is the campo santo
Last Line: On the little cross.


Here is the campo santo,
The holy ground,
The -- how you say? -- the cemetery.
You know it by the many crosses,
Straight and crooked,
Plain, or fancy with carvings,
But all crosses.
I like much that tall one
With the white dove sitting;
And that with the little angel blue
Is very nice, I think.

My brother Juan made this one,
So little by this so little grave.
His knife is not so sharp
Or he would make it better.
But it is pretty, too, que no?
The last baby of our house
We put here.

For her I bring these flowers.
You like the real ones better?
Yes, but so soon they wither.
These of the paper, they stay so pretty
Until the rain comes.
And I have made them all with my own hands
To give the baby.

This baby,
She was more of me than of her mother.
Our house has many children
And mother was too busy to watch to this one.
I hold her always.
And when she smiled, I saw it first --
I saw it first, too, when she was dead.

Her name?
But we don't put a name to her.
The priest, he don't can come,
And it is too far
To go to Mora in the wagon
When she is sick.

But I -- I put a name to her myself.
You don't think that makes wrong?
I don't want to tell you
The name.
It means to me like an angel
Riding in a cloud, soft, soft.
I whispered it to brother Juan,
And he -- he wrote it where no one can see,
On the little cross.





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