Goblins and Pagodas
By John Gould Fletcher
27 Jan, 2020
The clump of jessamine
Softly beneath the rain
Rocks its golden flowers.
In this room my father died:
His bed is in the corner.
No one has slept in it
Since the morning when he wakened
To meet death's hands at his heart.
I cannot go to this
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The clump of jessamine
Softly beneath the rain
Rocks its golden flowers.
In this room my father died:
His bed is in the corner.
No one has slept in it
Since the morning when he wakened
To meet death's hands at his heart.
I cannot go to this room,
Without feeling something big and angry Less