Oh mother, mother, wherein is happiness?They take it my lover"s tallness turn off to war,Left me lamenting. Currently I can not guessWhat I deserve to use an empty heart-cup for.He won"t be coming earlier here any more.Some work the war will end, but, oh, i knewWhen he went walking grandly out that doorThat mine sweet love would need to be untrue.Would need to be untrue. Would need to courtCoquettish death, who impudent and strangePossessive arms and also beauty (of a sort)Can do a hard man hesitate—and change.And he will certainly be the one to stammer, "Yes."Oh mother, mother, wherein is happiness?
Pulitzer compensation winner Gwendolyn Brooks, who wrote an ext than twenty publications of city in she lifetime, to be the first black mrs appointed Poet Laureate that the united States.
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arrive. The ladies from the Ladies" Betterment LeagueArrive in the afternoon, the late light slantingIn diluted yellow bars throughout the boulevard bragOf proud, seamed encounters with mercy and also murder hintingHere, there, interrupting, all deep and also debonair,The pink repaint on the innocence that fear;Walk in a gingerly manner up the hall. Cutting v knives offered by their softest care,Served by their love, therefore barbarously fair.Whose mothers taught: You"d far better not be cruel!You had far better not litter stones ~ above the wrens!Herein they kiss and also coddle and assaultAnew and also dearly in the innocenceWith which they baffle nature. Who space full,Sleek, tender-clad, fit, fiftyish, a-glow, allSweetly abortive, hinting in ~ fat fruit,Judge the high time the fiftyish finger feltBeneath the lovelier airplane of enterprise.To resurrect. To moisten v milky chill.To be a random hitching short article or plush.To be, for wet eyes, random and handy hem.Their guild is providing money to the poor.The worthy poor. The really very worthyAnd beautiful poor. Perhaps simply not also swarthy?Perhaps just not also dirty nor too dimNor—passionate. In truth, what they might wishIs—something less than derelict or dull.Not staunch enough to stab, though, gaze for gaze!God shield them sharply from the beggar-bold!The noxious needy ones whose battle"s baldNonetheless because that being voiceless, access time one down.But it"s all so bad! and entirely too lot for them.The stench; the urine, cabbage, and dead beans,Dead porridges of assorted dusty grains,The old smoke, heavy diapers, and, they"re told,Something dubbed chitterlings. The darkness. DrawnDarkness, or dirty light. The soil that stirs.The soil the looks the soil of centuries.And because that that matter the general oldness. OldWood. Old marble. Old tile. Old old old.Not homekind Oldness! not Lake Forest, Glencoe.Nothing is sturdy, nothing is majestic,There is no quiet drama, no rubbed glaze, noUnkillable imperfection of suchA tasteful revolve as recently they have actually left,Glencoe, Lake Forest, and to which their carsMust presently reclaim them. When they"re doneWith dullards and distortions the this fisticPatience of the poor and also put-upon.They"ve never ever seen together a make-do-ness asNewspaper rugs before! In this, this "flat,"Their hostess is gathering up the oozed, the richRugs of the morning (tattered! the bespattered . . . ),Readies to spread out clean rugs for afternoon.Here is a scene for you. The ladies look,In horror, behind a comprehensive citizenessWhose trains clank out throughout her swollen heart.Who, arms akimbo, practically fills a door.All tumbling children, quilts dragged come the floorAnd torture thereover, potato peelings, soft-Eyed kitten, hunched-up, haggard, to-be-hurt.Their league is allotting largesse come the Lost.But to placed their clean, their pretty money, to putTheir money built up from vulnerable rose-fingersTipped v their hundred flawless rose-nails appears . . . They own Spode, Lowestoft, candelabra,Mantels, and hostess gowns, and sunburst clocks,Turtle soup, Chippendale, red satin "hangings,"Aubussons and Hattie Carnegie. Castle WinterIn Palm Beach; overcome the Water in June; attend,When suitable, the nice art Institute;Buy the right books in the ideal bindings; saunterOn Michigan, Easter mornings, in sunlight or wind.Oh Squalor! This sick four-story hulk, this fibreWith fissures everywhere! Why, what space bringingsOf loathe-love largesse? What shall hazard hungersSo old old, what shall flatter the desolate?Tin can, clogged fire escape and also chitterlingAnd swaggering seeking youth and the perplexed wreckageOf the middle passage, and urine and stale shamesAnd, again, the porridges of the underslungAnd children children children. Heavens! ThatWas a rat, surely, turn off there, in the shadows? LongAnd long-tailed? Gray? The ladies from the Ladies"Betterment league agree it will certainly be betterTo attain the external air the rights and also steadies,To hurry to a residence that does not holler, to ringBells elsetime, much better presently come caterTo no more Possibilities, to getAway. Probably the money can be posted.Perhaps they two might choose an additional Slum!Some significant sooty half-unhappy home!—Where loathe-lover likelier may be invested.Keeping your scented bodies in the centerOf the hall together they walk under the hysterical hall,They enable their beloved skirts come graze no wall,Are turn off at what they regulate of a canter,And, resuming every the clues of what lock were,Try to protect against inhaling the laden air.
THE pool PLAYERS. 7 AT THE gold SHOVEL.
We genuine cool. WeLeft school. We
Lurk late. WeStrike straight. We
Sing sin. WeThin gin. We
Jazz June. WeDie soon.
They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.Dinner is a casual affair.Plain chipware top top a plain and creaking wood, tin flatware.
Two that are mainly Good.Two who have lived your day,But save on putting on your clothesAnd placing things away.
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And mental . . .Remembering, with twinklings and also twinges,As they lean over the bean in their rented ago room that is complete of beads and also receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and also fringes.