The Lost Country

Spring 2013 • Vol. 2, No. 1

issn 2326-5310 (online)

Mosaic Fragments

By Maria Stromberg

This work was published in the Spring 2013 issue of The Lost Country. You may purchase a copy of this issue from us or, if you prefer, from Amazon.

In the midst of life I found myself in a dark wood
alone, and palely loitering,
and wandering
down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind
I cried
not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
even if
April is the cruelest month
and this is
no country for old men,
all is seared with trade, bleared, smeared, with toil;
things fall apart, the center cannot hold;
I will not
go gentle into that good night.

I, being poor, have only my dreams,
these fragments I have shored against my ruins.
when I consider how my light is spent,
then on the shores of the dark world I stand alone and think—
when, when, Peace, will you, Peace?

Where might this music be, in the air or the earth?
Darkling I listen:
love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.
There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
Aye on the shores of darkness there is light,
and morning, on the brown brink eastward, springs.