Poem Hunter
The Small Hours
(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967 / Long Branch / New Jersey)

The Small Hours

No more my little song comes back;
And now of nights I lay
My head on down, to watch the black
And wait the unfailing gray.

Oh, sad are winter nights, and slow;
And sad's a song that's dumb;
And sad it is to lie and know
Another dawn will come.

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Comments (1)

Her wit, her sardonic bite, came from a very dark place inside her. I wonder if it was clinical depression or just a heart that sped from one disaster straight into the arms of another and thus built her own pit of depression to fall into on a regular basis