IT has grown across his grave; This struggling vine, Since last I was here. And twined about the tablet at the grave head. I could not bear to come before. It was too bitter, the thought That it was this son Who lay here; whose back The burning beam had broken, Who died in slow agony, Because he waited to throw to safety His brother—and that, My son too, but a liar. (God forgive me; but here I cannot lie To my own heart; and we mothers Are not blind as men say we are; Or stupid; though we would have the world believe us so.) A liar, a braggart, vainglorious, a coward. He lives and boasts and struts and poses. And I must conceal from the world What he is—or strive to. While this boy lies here—the light of my soul. Soul—but is there a soul? I have turned from creeds—Buddhist, Christian—all. The old doubt comes back—the old wonder. Life beyond the grave—? Only to know "Yes" or "No"; then the mind were at rest! No man can prove to me there is not. None can prove there is. The old torture of uncertainty, of questioning, That eats into life's core and makes mock Of words that the gentle-hearted Would urge in comfort. ...... The honeysuckle that grows across his grave— I crush the bloom. (Pain finds joy in destruction.) The blossom is gone but its fragrance lingers. So perhaps lingers the fragrance of his life. Even God can not kill beauty. Or its essence—too impalpable for form In soul or body. And the world may catch the fragrance. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FINIS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 5. THE DANCING GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO A SCREEN-MAKER by MARIANNE MOORE MR. HOUSMAN'S MESSAGE by EZRA POUND GENEVIEVE AND ALEXANDRA (2) by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |