The sword sang on the barren heath,
The sickle in the fruitful field;
The sword he sung a song of death,
But could not make the sickle yield.
·
The sword sang on the barren heath,
The sickle in the fruitful field;
The sword he sung a song of death,
But could not make the sickle yield.
“But, for a moment, let us pause. Let us be still. Or, rather, let me be quiet in her memory — and in memory of me — for a while.”
Harold Brodkey | The Runaway Soul