ON A SINGING GIRL
Remembering Elinor Wylie
What hand has hushed The singing throat And latched the lips Forever to the note
Of song? Was it
The wind that came
Her way and turned
To frost the spirit's proud poised flame?
The fragile flesh,
The blood, and bone Are given to dust And oblivion. . . .
Curve tenderly,
O Death, your long
Lean hands to hold
The broken bird, the shattered song.