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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Frances Shaw

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Grandmother

Frances Shaw

HOW can I, wordless, make you understand,

When you so gently stroke my withered hand

And ask me if I like my tea,

And if the long night rested me?

O girl, my body, not my heart, is dead—

Tell me, oh, tell me what your lover said!

Tell how the moonlight on the garden lay,

And what is the red flower you wear today.

I knew it once—the memory is dead.

Tell me, oh, tell me what your lover said!