Myrtle Barber
by
Nathanael Smith

Myrtle Barber
Who are you?
Not even six months did you see
Painful, I'm sure, was your mother's heart
The dear, sweet, loving child
Pining away, dying, passing on
Did they have a service
With preachaer and friends and all?
Did they pull off their daily circus
And convince the lovers you were not fallen
When are life and death separate
At what point can we draw the line?
Am I a square, or just boxed in
By these multitude of otherwise

O little one, who are you?
There is no evidence of you
Save a blasted monument
On your blasted tomb

O little one, who were you?
Your history is so short
One hardly imagines you lived at all
Before you joined that nether court.