John Crowe Ransom
The little cousin is dead, by foul subtraction,
A green bough from Virginia's aged tree,
And none of the county kin like the transaction,
Nor some of the world of outer dark, like me.
A boy not beautiful, nor good, nor clever,
A black cloud full of storms too hot for keeping,
A sword beneath his mother's heart—yet never
Woman bewept her babe as this is weeping.
A pig with a pasty face, so I had said,
Squealing for cookies, kinned by poor pretense
With a noble house. But the little man quite dead,
I see the forbears' antique lineaments.
The elder men have strode by the box of death
To the wide flag porch, and muttering low send round
The bruit of the day. O friendly waste of breath!
Their hearts are hurt with a deep dynastic wound.
He was pale and little, the foolish neighbors say;
The first-fruits, saith the Preacher, the Lord hath taken;
But this was the old tree's late branch wrenched away,
Grieving the sapless limbs, the short and shaken.
John Crowe Ransom's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Dead Boy by John Crowe Ransom )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Love's labor lost, PRIYANKA BHANDARKAR
- mens sana in corpore sano -a healthy mi.., Sadiqullah Khan
- Do not leave us, Sadiqullah Khan
- Regal Grace, Sadiqullah Khan
- Another Lesson Learned, Danielle Mari Nidea
- A Birthday Wish, Adonis Enricuso
- What Why When.......Its Gone Wrong?, Jayatissa Liyanage
- Envy, Nassy Fesharaki
- Shattered, Ana Rose Trazo
- Chalo Hum Kho Jate hai, Kisi Ke Ho Jate .., Abhishek Omprakash Mishra