Martha Foote Crow

AN INTERMINABLE procession of ghosts of past time

Floats continually by me in my dreams.

And they all reach out their hands to me,

Warning, appealing, commanding.

A few seem benign;

But though their touch is soft as snow,

They have a grip like iron.

Some were builders, and they cry, “Build like me!”

And some were wiseacres, and they demand, “Think like me!”

And some were poets, and they whisper, “Sing like me!”

I throw you off, O you ghosts of past time!

As for me,

I will work along your tiresome squares and cubes,

But I will not build like you, O builders!

I will eat your nauseous wisdoms, O wiseacres,

But I will not think like you!

I will move in your deepest rhythms,

But I will not sing like you, O poets!

Like myself only will I think and build and sing—

And not like any of you!

Even you, my veritable brothers

Who died but yesterday,

I am not thinking of you—

But of some one to be born tomorrow.