Eclipse of the Moon by Mary Susanah Robbins - HTML preview

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I can never do it


get through the day on this mistake,

bitterness and all it

imposes. Trumpeters of the small,

awake; play music that all,

happy and sad, may make.


A heart that hardens

before its own tenderness

finds a luxuriant garden

in rhyme, and that's the snare

I won't be caught in here:

come, trumpets, that I may bless.


Each morning

I fight with my pen's

bitter singing

to make it whole

to make a soul

that makes all over again.


Trumpets of delight,

I hear your voices far:

what is the song? — Write

for a waking child:

his morning tears and smiles

are all that these words are.


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