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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416591" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Dead Selves</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">How many of my selves are dead?<br>The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo,<br>The baby in the tiny bed<br>With rockers on, is blanketed<br>And sleeping in the long ago;<br>And so I ask, with shaking head,<br>How many of my selves are dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A little face with drowsy eyes<br>And lisping lips comes mistily<br>From out the faded past, and tries<br>The prayers a mother breathed with sighs<br>Of anxious care in teaching me;<br>But face and form and prayers have fled--<br>How many of my selves are dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The little naked feet that slipped<br>In truant paths, and led the way<br>Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped<br>O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped<br>In streams forbidden--where are they?<br>In vain I listen for their tread--<br>How many of my selves are dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The awkward boy the teacher caught<br>Inditing letters filled with love,<br>Who was compelled, for all he fought,<br>To read aloud each tender thought<br>Of 'Sugar Lump' and 'Turtle Dove.'<br>I wonder where he hides his head--<br>How many of my selves are dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The earnest features of a youth<br>With manly fringe on lip and chin,<br>With eager tongue to tell the truth,<br>To offer love and life, forsooth,<br>So brave was he to woo and win;<br>A prouder man was never wed--<br>How many of my selves are dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The great, strong hands so all-inclined<br>To welcome toil, or smooth the care<br>From mother-brows, or quick to find<br>A leisure-scrap of any kind,<br>To toss the baby in the air,<br>Or clap at babbling things it said--<br>How many of my selves are dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The pact of brawn and scheming brain--<br>Conspiring in the plots of wealth,<br>Still delving, till the lengthened chain,<br>Unwindlassed in the mines of gain,<br>Recoils with dregs of ruined health<br>And pain and poverty instead--<br>How many of my selves are dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The faltering step, the faded hair--<br>Head, heart and soul, all echoing<br>With maundering fancies that declare<br>That life and love were never there,<br>Nor ever joy in anything,<br>Nor wounded heart that ever bled--<br>How many of my selves are dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So many of my selves are dead,<br>That, bending here above the brink<br>Of my last grave, with dizzy head,<br>I find my spirit comforted,<br>For all the idle things I think:<br>It can but be a peaceful bed,<br>Since all my other selves are dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Whitcomb+Riley">James Whitcomb Riley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416591" data-title="Dead Selves de James Whitcomb Riley" data-description="How many of my selves are dead?
The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo,
The baby in the tiny bed
With rockers on, is blanketed
And sleeping in the long ago;
And so I ask, with shaking head,
How many of my selves are dead?

A little face with drowsy eyes
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