HE praised the greatness of the child I bore, As free from sickness, gifted with long days; And when he had said all, to comfort me About my heavenly fortune sang a hymn. And I then hoped that Phoebus' holy lips Could never lie in their prophetic art. But he who sang, who stood there at the feast, Who said these words, he is the very one Who slew my son. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FAIRY TALE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DOWN THE BROOK by ROBERT FROST IN 'DESIGNING A CLOAK TO CLOAK HIS DESIGNS' YOU WRESTED FROM OBLIVION by MARIANNE MOORE A COLONIAL MORNING DREAM by KAREN SWENSON AN AMERICAN IN BANGKOK by KAREN SWENSON FONTAINEBLEAU (AUTUMN) by SARA TEASDALE |