I have eased My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck. I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children. You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh, Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air.
