Classic and Contemporary Poetry
DEAD SELVES, by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: How many of my selves are dead? Last Line: Since all my other selves are dead. Alternate Author Name(s): Johnson Of Boone, Benj. F. Subject(s): Death; Ghosts; Supernatural; Dead, The | ||||||||
How many of my selves are dead? The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo, The baby in the tiny bed With rockers on, is blanketed And sleeping in the long ago; And so I ask, with shaking head, How many of my selves are dead? A little face with drowsy eyes And lisping lips comes mistily From out the faded past, and tries The prayers a mother breathed with sighs Of anxious care in teaching me; But face and form and prayers have fled -- How many of my selves are dead? The little naked feet that slipped In truant paths, and led the way Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped In streams forbidden -- where are they? In vain I listen for their tread -- How many of my selves are dead? The awkward boy the teacher caught Inditing letters filled with love, Who was compelled, for all he fought, To read aloud each tender thought Of "Sugar Lump" and "Turtle Dove." I wonder where he hides his head -- How many of my selves are dead? The earnest features of a youth With manly fringe on lip and chin, With eager tongue to tell the truth, To offer love and life, forsooth, So brave was he to woo and win; A prouder man was never wed -- How many of my selves are dead? The great, strong hands so all-inclined To welcome toil, or smooth the care From mother-brows, or quick to find A leisure-scrap of any kind, To toss the baby in the air, Or clap at babbling things it said -- How many of my selves are dead? The pact of brawn and scheming brain -- Conspiring in the plots of wealth, Still delving, till the lengthened chain, Unwindlassed in the mines of gain, Recoils with dregs of ruined health And pain and poverty instead -- How many of my selves are dead? The faltering step, the faded hair -- Head, heart and soul, all echoing With maundering fancies that declare That life and love were never there, Nor ever joy in anything, Nor wounded heart that ever bled -- How many of my selves are dead? So many of my selves are dead, That, bending here above the brink Of my last grave, with dizzy head, I find my spirit comforted, For all the idle things I think: It can but be a peaceful bed, Since all my other selves are dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND A BOY'S MOTHER by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY |
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