POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
Then
I gathered up within me all my powers
Until outside of me was nothing:
I was all—
All stubborn, fighting sadness and revulsion.
And one came from the garden quietly
And stood beside me.
She laid her hand on my hair;
She laid her cheek on my forehead
And caressed me with it.
But all my being rose to my forehead
To fight against this outside thing.
Something in me became angry,
Withstood like a wall,
And would allow no entrance—
I hated her.
"What is the matter with you, dear?" she said.
"Nothing," I answered,
"I am thinking."
She stroked my hair and went away;
And I was still gloomy, angry, stubborn.
Then I thought:
She has gone away; she is hurt;
She does not know
What poison has been working in me.
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