Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/123

 Or is this deeper darkness. . . ? Is that you, Mother? How did you come? Where are the candles? . . . Over my bed a strange tree gleams—half filled With stars and birds whose white notes glimmer through Its seven branches now that all is stilled. What? Friday night again and all my songs Forgotten? Wait. . . I still can sing— Sh'ma Yisroel Adonai Elohenu, Adonai Echod. . .                      Mouche—Mathilde! . . . 109