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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=458379" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Feel Me</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Feel me to do right,” our father said on his deathbed. <br>We did not quite know—in fact, not at all—what he meant. <br>His last whisper was spent as through a slot in a wall. <br>He left us a key, but how did it fit? “Feel me <br>to do right.” Did it mean that, though he died, he would be felt <br>through some aperture, or by some unseen instrument <br>our dad just then had come to know? So, to do right always, <br>we need but feel his spirit? Or was it merely his apology <br>for dying? “Feel that I do right in not trying, <br>as you insist, to stay on your side. There is the wide <br>gateway and the splendid tower, and you implore me <br>to wait here, with the worms!” </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Had he defined his terms, and could we discriminate <br>among his motives, we might have found out how to “do right” <br>before we died—supposing he felt he suddenly knew <br>what dying was. “You do wrong because you do not feel <br>as I do now” was maybe the sense. “Feel me, and emulate <br>my state, for I am becoming less dense—I am feeling right <br>for the first time.” And then the vessel burst, <br>and we were kneeling around an emptiness. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>We cannot feel our father now. His power courses through us, <br>yes, but he—the chest and cheek, the foot and palm, <br>the mouth of oracle—is calm. And we still seek <br>his meaning. “Feel me,” he said, and emphasized that word. <br>Should we have heard it as a plea for a caress— <br>a constant caress, since flesh to flesh was all that we <br>could do right if we would bless him? <br>The dying must feel the pressure of that question— <br>lying flat, turning cold from brow to heel—the hot <br>cowards there above protesting their love, and saying, <br>“What can we do? Are you all right?” While the wall opens <br>and the blue night pours through. “What can we do? <br>We want to do what’s right.” </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>“Lie down with me, and hold me, tight. Touch me. Be <br>with me. Feel with me. Feel me to do right.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=May+Swenson">May Swenson</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=458379" data-title="Feel Me de May Swenson" data-description="“Feel me to do right,” our father said on his deathbed. 
We did not quite know—in fact, not at all—what he meant. 
His last whisper was spent as through a slot in a wall. 
He left us a key, but how did it fit? “Feel me 
to do right.” D..."></div>
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