Literature and Poetry/
May 1st

Rachel

No Sappho, Love's Condition is Class Warfare

Here on the face of earth - not in the sky, above - 
On the face of the nearest earth, the mother; 
Rest in sadness and rejoice in her meagre joy 
Who knows how to comfort. 

I have not blurred the day - the day is in hand, 
The solid day,  warm, sturdy: 
To drink one’s fill of  this day, the short day, the one, 
On the face of our earth here

Before it is night – come, come everyone!
A united effort, stubborn and alert 
Of a thousand arms. Will the wave stop 
The stone from the well?

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