Fall 1947 • Vol. IX No. 4 Poetry |

An Apprehension

An apprehension rose in me to be alive. The crest concealed my memory from view And made the past a death and made it new. If there were blues in my knees, and there were, Yet the blues had a fire to contrive And the such was the flicker of my fear. A hesitation troubled to concern, To seek the hand of a hundred and to mourn Who but me is here and in fear to be born?

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Deed

By Josephine Miles

An apprehension rose in me to be alive. The crest concealed my memory from view And made the past a death and made it new. If there were blues in […]

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