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Tuesday, November 26, 2013

365 Poems: Why poetry students are crazy

Day 330

In a good way. I should write something really profound about how these two are connected but I haven't figured that out yet. Maybe by great grief.

One week, I'm studying this:


And the next week, this:

On My Dear Grandchild Simon Bradstreet, Who Died On
16 November, 1669, Being a Month, and One day Old

by Anne Bradstreet
no sooner came, but gone, and fall’n asleep,
acquaintance short, yet parting caused us weep;
Three flowers, two scarcely blown, the last i’ th’ bud,
cropt by th’ almighty’s hand; yet is he good.
With dreadful awe before him let’s be mute,
Such was his will, but why, let’s not dispute,
With humble hearts and mouths put in the dust,
let’s say he’s merciful as well as just.
he will return and make up all our losses,
and smile again after our bitter crosses
Go pretty babe, go rest with sisters twain;
among the blest in endless joys remain.

Talk about caesura. Or, as Al Filreis would say, 'This.'

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