Alice Corbin

A THIN gray shadow on the edge of thought

Hiding its wounds:

These are the wounds of sorrow—

It was my hand that made them;

And this gray shadow that resembles you

Is my own heart, weeping …

You sleep quietly beneath the shade

Of willows in the south.

When the cold dawn stood above the house-tops,

Too late I remembered the cry

In the night of a wild bird flying

Through the rain-filled sky.