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The Thin Woman Upon the Road

The Thin Woman Upon the Road Byron Herbert Reece The Thin Woman Upon the Road The thin woman upon the road Went lame and stooped under grief, Her constant insensible load; She'd a shawl like a tattered leaf Torn by the cat-pawed wind Then unsheathed the claws behind; That touched with a playful pad She was wild and wandering mad And had a hurt look in her eye That questioned herself as much As chance for the reason why; She had a stick in her clutch And leaned upon it and said: Only the whole can stay At home, and turn to their bed And rest, at the close of day: The maimed must look abroad Like a child for a lost plaything For the past-perfection of God That slipped from their handseling: I once seemed whole as the sphere Of the summer-ripened grape, But changed, as the tampering year Alters that shimmering shape; And something was snatched from my clutch That was perfect and circle-whole; But I'll never come upon such For there is a rent in my soul; The sun's a crimped coin in the sky, The plumb of the zenith is bent; There is nothing sound in my eye Because my http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

The Thin Woman Upon the Road

Appalachian Review , Volume 31 (2) – Jan 8, 2003

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Byron Herbert Reece The Thin Woman Upon the Road The thin woman upon the road Went lame and stooped under grief, Her constant insensible load; She'd a shawl like a tattered leaf Torn by the cat-pawed wind Then unsheathed the claws behind; That touched with a playful pad She was wild and wandering mad And had a hurt look in her eye That questioned herself as much As chance for the reason why; She had a stick in her clutch And leaned upon it and said: Only the whole can stay At home, and turn to their bed And rest, at the close of day: The maimed must look abroad Like a child for a lost plaything For the past-perfection of God That slipped from their handseling: I once seemed whole as the sphere Of the summer-ripened grape, But changed, as the tampering year Alters that shimmering shape; And something was snatched from my clutch That was perfect and circle-whole; But I'll never come upon such For there is a rent in my soul; The sun's a crimped coin in the sky, The plumb of the zenith is bent; There is nothing sound in my eye Because my

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2003

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