THE LITTLE SHADE
No longer that grey visage fix,
Charon,
Asking me how I come to mix
With this pale boat-load on the Styx,
Charon.
I am so very small a Shade,
Charon,
Holding the vase my father made
And toys of silver all inlaid,
Charon.
Ferry me to the golden trees,
Charon,
To isles of childish play and ease
And baths of dove-like Pleiades,
Charon.
Ferry me to the azure lands,
Charon,
Where some dead mother understands
The lifting of my baby hands,
Charon.