To a Young American Lady

Bookplate ? I never had one. And my shelves
Carry no monstrous burden of books themselves.
Into a book called Life I oftener dip,
But even there I find a deal to skip:
Parts without glow—lack-lustre passages—
Its myriad soulless leaves—and round all these
The nightmare riddle of its authorship.

Ghetto Funeral

Followed by his lodge, shabby men stumbling over the cobblestones,
and his children, faces red and ugly with tears, eyes and eyelids red,
in the black coffin in the black hearse the old man.

No longer secretly grieving
that his children are not strong enough to go the way he wanted to go
and was not strong enough.

Memory

Love's roses I gathered, all dewy, in May,
My heart holds the breath of their attar to-day;
And now, while the blasts of the winter winds ring,
I hear not the tempest, I'm dreaming of Spring.

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