Little Son
The very acme of my woe, The pivot of my pride, My consolation, and my hope Deferred, but not denied.
The substance of my every dream, The riddle of my plight, The very world epitomized In turmoil and delight.
Georgia Douglas Johnson
The very acme of my woe, The pivot of my pride, My consolation, and my hope Deferred, but not denied.
The substance of my every dream, The riddle of my plight, The very world epitomized In turmoil and delight.
In these eight lines, a mother speaks to her little son, piling up paradoxes to capture how much he means to her. He is both the height of her sorrow and the center of her pride; he comforts her and keeps her hoping even when hope is postponed.
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