Why did my father write? I know he saw History clutched as … - Donald Davidson

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Why did my father write? I know he saw
History clutched as a wraith out of blowing mist
Where tongues are loud, and a glut of little souls
Laps at the too much blood and the burning house.

Donald Davidson

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About Donald Davidson

Donald Grady Davidson (August 8, 1893 – April 25, 1968) was a U.S. poet, essayist, social and literary critic, and author. He is best known as a founding member of the Nashville, Tennessee, circle of poets known as the Fugitives and of an overlapping group, the Southern Agrarians.

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Alternative Names: Donald Grady Davidson

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Something stirs that once had life. It drops
Into the stream, a last act of faith.
Seedballs of sycamore, incautious leaves of willow,
These have outstayed their autumn, teasing death
Only so far, not yet beyond all patience.
Now they let go.

The probing knife of madness
Can start a dullard brain;
Cold cheeks feel kisses
And warm with tears again

I want the word that burns into my heart
Like God's coal alive on the Prophet's tongue.
I would listen now while memory is ablaze
To seal your testament within my soul.

Why did my father write? I know he saw History clutched as a wraith out of blowing mist Where tongues are loud, and a glut of little souls Laps at th… - Donald Davidson

About Donald Davidson

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Additional quotes by Donald Davidson