  The loose eyes of an old man Shone aloof upon his boyish face; And a sluggish innocence Hugged his dull brown skin. He sang a hymn caught from his elders And his voice resembled A quavering, feverish laugh Softened in a swaying cradle. His life had found a refuge in his voice, And the rest of him was sickly flesh Ignorant of life and death. Like a crushed, excited clown His mother shuffled out upon the porch. Slowly her dark brown face resolved Into the hushed and sulky look Of one who stands within a dim-walled trap. Lazily uncertain, She raised the boy into her arms. Then her voice swung in the air Like a quavering, feverish laugh Softened in a swaying cradle. |
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