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No More Lamps in the Morning

de Josephine Foster

Throw away my food
And find a dish of stone
Perhaps I would be fuller
If I started at the bone.

Blow away the leaves
The reeds will cease to moan
For they are but fetters
Of the golden wooden tone!

I have ate the rose,
And now am served weed!
Expect the sun to treasure dust
As substitute for seed?

But which will carve my stomach least
And paint my lips the redder?
The hammered shell or the underneath?
I'm naught to know what's better!

Oh, I have ate the rose
And now am served weed
Expect the sun to treasure dust
As substitute for seed?

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