IT is at morning, twilight they expire; Death takes in hand, when midnight sounds, Millions of bodies in their beds, And scarcely anybody thinks of it. ... O men and women, you About to die at break of day, I see your hands' uneasy multitude, Which now the blood deserts for ever! White people in the throes of death, Wrestling in all the world to-night, And whom the weeping dawn will silence, Fearful I hear your gasping breath! How many of you there are dying! How can so many other folks be lying Asleep upon the shore of your death-rattles! ... Here is noise in the house; I am not the only one who hears you: Some one has stepped about a room, Some one has risen to watch over you. But no! It is a little song I hear. If some one stepped about a room, It was to go and rock a little child, Who has been born this evening in the house. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FRAGMENTS WRITTEN WHILE TRAVELING...A MIDWESTERN HEAT WAVE by JAMES GALVIN THE BUTCHER SHOP by DAVID IGNATOW THE REWARD by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE CORNUCOPIA OF RED AND GREEN COMFITS by AMY LOWELL THE POET; SONNET by AMY LOWELL STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 2. ILLINOIS by CLARENCE MAJOR |