And I burned with shame and held my peace.
And what could I do, all covered over
And weighted down with western soil,
Except aspire, and pray for another
Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River
Rooted out of my soul?
FATHER MALLOY
You are over there, Father Malloy,
Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave,
Not here with us on the hill—