John Crowe Ransom

(30 April 1888 - 3 July 1974 / Pulaski Tennessee)

Morning - Poem by John Crowe Ransom

THE skies were jaded, while the famous sun
Slack of his office to confute the fogs
Lay sick abed; but I, inured to duty,
Sat for my food. Three hours each day we souls,
Who might be angels but are fastened down
With bodies, most infuriating freight,
Sit fattening these frames and skeletons
With filthy food, which they must cast away
Before they feed again.


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, March 31, 2010



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