He approached and stood over her.
“It was a wonderful sight,” he said, looking down at her. “I have never forgotten it. The great animal was all life, vibrant, magnificent life. Its feet scarcely touched the ground.”
“We are like that,” he added, leaning over her. “The men of our family have that vibrant, conquering life in us.”
The woman arose from the chair and moved toward the darkened corner where the coffin stood. He followed slowly. When they had gone thus across the room she put up her hand and plead with him.
“No, no!—Think! Remember!” she whispered.
With a low laugh he sprang at her. She dodged quickly. Both of them had become silent. Among the chairs and tables they went, swiftly, silently, the pursuer and the pursued.
Into a corner of the room she got, where she could no longer elude him. Near her sat the long coffin, its ends resting on black stands made for the purpose. They struggled, and then as they stood breathless with hot startled faces, there was a crash, the sound of broken glass and the dead body of his brother with its staring eyes rolled, from the fallen coffin, out upon the floor.
Don’ts for Critics[2]
(Apropos of recent criticisms of Imagism, vers libre, and modern poetry generally.)
ALICE CORBIN HENDERSON