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Слушать(AI)December 1919
Last night I heard your voice, mother, The words you sang to me When I, a little barefoot boy, Knelt down against your knee. And tears gushed from my heart, mother, And passed beyond its wall, But though the fountain reached my throat The drops refused to fall. 'Tis ten years since you died, mother, Just ten dark years of pain, And oh,
I only wish that I Could weep just once again.
Composition Date:presumably Dec. 1919.
The lyrical form of this poem is abcb.
Claude McKay
Festus Claudius "Claude" McKay (September 15, 1889[1] – May 22, 1948) was a Jamaican writer and poet, and was a central figure in the Harlem Ren
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Home Thoughts
Oh something just now must be happening there That suddenly and quiveringly here, Amid the city's noises, I must think Of mangoes leaning o'er the river's brink,
Futility
Oh, I have tried to laugh the pain away, Let new flames brush my love-springs like a feather But the old fever seizes me to-day,
Heritage
Now the dead past seems vividly alive, And in this shining moment I can trace, Down through the vista of the vanished years, Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face
Outcast
For the dim regions whence my fathers came My spirit, bondaged by the body, longs Words felt, but never heard, my lips would frame; My soul would sing forgotten jungle songs I would go back to darkness and to peace,