Louise Bogan

My Voice Not Being Proud

My voice, not being proud 
Like a strong woman's, that cries 
Imperiously aloud 
That death disarm her, lull her 
Screams for no mourning color 
Laid menacingly, like fire, 
Over my long desire. 
It will end, and leave no print. 
As you lie, I shall lie: 

Separate, eased and cured. 
Whatever is wasted or wanted 
In this country of glass and flint 
Some garden will use, once planted. 
As you lie alone, I shall lie, 
O, in singleness assured, 
Deafened by mire and lime. 
I remember, while there is time.