They speak about the sorts of things one might expect: some recite their histories and turning points, others make observations of life from the outside, and petty ones complain of the treatment of their graves, while few tell how they really died. Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,Įach following poem is an autobiographical epitaph of a dead citizen, delivered by the dead themselves. Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago, Who played with life all his ninety years,ĭrinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin, They brought them dead sons from the war, Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag-Īnd old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton, One after life in far-away London and Paris One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire One at the hands of a brute in a brothel, The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?. Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith, One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife-Īll, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter? Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, The first poem serves as an introduction:
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