More Miss Smith

I don't know why I am in such a Stevie Smith frame of mind. There must be a reason though. Probably some impulse to escape. I think that my grandmother's death is hitting me pretty hard.  We spoke twice a day, every day, for almost 10 years.

I ordered one of Miss Smith's books last night from Amazon. Novel on Yellow Paper. I used to have a copy of this somewhere, but I seemed to have lost it. I think I bought it from Foyle's on Charing Cross Road in a pre-Blair trip to London.

Today I offer another Smith favorite.

Mr. Over


Mr. Over is dead
He died fighting and true
And on his tombstone they wrote
Over to You.

And pray who is this You
To whom Mr. Over is gone?
Oh if we knew that
We should not do wrong.

But who is this beautiful You
We all of us long for so much
Is he not our friend and our brother
Our father and such?

Yes he is this and much more
This is but a portion
A sea-drop in a bucket
Taken from the ocean.

So the voices spake
Softly above my head:
And a voice in my heart cried: Follow
Where he has led

And a devil's voice cried: Happy
Happy the dead.