The Little Review, December 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 9)

A handful of brief, lyrical pieces opens the volume, each a miniature tribute to forgotten corners of antiquity. The verses drift from sandal‑scented graves to quiet harvest scenes, stitching together images of mournful statues, swallows, and moonlit forests with a spare, almost musical cadence. Their brevity invites listeners to linger on every scent of mint, every glint of a sickle, while the classical names and mythic allusions feel surprisingly fresh and intimate.

The prose that follows shifts into a modern, confessional tone, where a narrator recalls evenings spent with a sister who has become both familiar and uncanny. Their shared past is filtered through fragmented memory, a mix of childhood daring, sudden violence, and the lingering weight of family expectations. The piece balances quiet domestic detail with an undercurrent of tension, offering a poignant glimpse into the ways love and trauma can coexist in everyday moments.