Summer 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1956 |

Warning

First beyond all song, or any note, was that terrible small silence in her lovely throat—and all along, the quiet potency for most fantastic song. Still, there lingers in Philomela's cries the echo of her deft fingers when her music flies. She could not sing except for outraged muteness, Procne, and the king who had his wild will. You, who would make bold, beware when they keep still. The tale is old: quiet as snow, a heart will burst—then warble when the mind lets go.

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Great Grandfather

By David R. Slavitt

First beyond all song, or any note, was that terrible small silence in her lovely throat—and all along, the quiet potency for most fantastic song. Still, there lingers in Philomela's […]

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