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<p>[QUOTE=&quot;rifke, post: 1987142150, member: 26623&quot;]<font size="6"><b>Dream Song 29 </b></font></p><p>By <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/john-berryman" target="_blank" class="externalLink ProxyLink" data-proxy-href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/john-berryman" rel="nofollow">John Berryman</a></p><p><br /></p><p>There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart&nbsp; </p><p>só heavy, if he had a hundred years</p><p>&amp; more, &amp; weeping, sleepless, in all them time&nbsp; </p><p>Henry could not make good.</p><p>Starts again always in Henry’s ears</p><p>the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.</p><p><br /></p><p>And there is another thing he has in mind&nbsp; </p><p>like a grave Sienese face a thousand years</p><p>would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,&nbsp; </p><p>with open eyes, he attends, blind.</p><p>All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;&nbsp; </p><p>thinking.</p><p><br /></p><p>But never did Henry, as he thought he did,</p><p>end anyone and hacks her body up</p><p>and hide the pieces, where they may be found.</p><p>He knows: he went over everyone, &amp; nobody’s missing.&nbsp; </p><p>Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.</p><p>Nobody is ever missing.[/QUOTE]</p><p><br /></p>

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