My son, my executioner,
I take you in my arms,
Quiet and small and just astir,
And whom my body warms.
Sweet death, small son, out instrument
Of immortality,
Your cries and hunger document
Our bodily decay.
We twenty-five and twenty-two,
Who seemed to live forever,
Observe enduring life in you
And start to die together.
I need to find a critiqe of this poem online somewhere. if someone could write a critiqe for this by tonight i would be much obliged. or show me a solid critiqe on this poem would be great as well.. please please please
Left out the last verse:
I take into my arms the death
Maturity exacts,
And name with my imperfect breath
The mortal paradox.
It’s true that when this poem was first published, it had that fourth stanza, but eventually, Mr. Hall decided to omit it:
http://www.gracecavalieri.com/poetLaureates/donaldHall.html