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Louis Untermeyer
Or is this deeper darkness . . . ? Is that you,
Mother? How did you come? Where are the candles? . . .
Over my bed a strange tree gleams—half filled
With stars and birds whose white notes glimmer through
Its seven branches now that all is stilled.
What? Friday night again and all my songs
Forgotten? Wait . . . I still can sing—
Sh'ma Yisroel Adonai Elohenu,
Adonai Echod . . .
Mouche—Mathilde! . . .
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