A Minor Poet and Other Verse

I May Not Weep, Not Weep, And He Is Dead. A Weary, Weary Weight Of Tears Unshed Through The Long Day In My Sad Heart I Bear; The Horrid Sun With All Unpitying Glare Shines Down Into The Dreary Weaving-room, Where Clangs The Ceaseless Clatter Of The Loom, And Ceaselessly Deft Maiden-fingers Weave.