The thorn in Rilke’s finger,
The boil on Scriabin’s lip,
Were enough to wrest the singer
From his musicianship.

 

Airiest Isadora
Gave up her dancing breath
When motoring she wore a
Red scarf that caught on death.

 

Small things speed our departure:
A scarf, a boil, a thorn;
But were they any larger,
The things by which we are born?

A Message from the Editors

As a reader of our efforts, you have stood with us on the front lines in the battle for culture. Learn how your support contributes to our continued defense of truth.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 28 Number 2, on page 29
Copyright © 2021 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2009/10/small-things