A William Carlos William poem comes back to life.

Williams wrote "About a Little Girl" in 1921 after diagnosing Michael and Carl Lund's mother with leukemia when she was 11. Along with his literary career, Williams had a medical practice in Rutherford, N.J.

Lund said Williams was a friend of his mother's family, and thought after reviewing medical tests that she was likely to die. The poem contrasts a happy, outgoing "angel" of a child with the death he believed would overtake her.

As it turned out, Williams' diagnosis was wrong and the child, Marian Macy, lived until 2002 — two weeks short of 92. The poem, which Williams signed with his initials, WCW, was passed from Marian's mother to Marian, then to her two sons.

Robert Hamblin, director of Southeast Missouri's Center for Faulkner Studies, said he doesn't know why Williams didn't publish the poem.

"To find it at this late date," he said, "is wonderful."

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R.I.P. Mohammed Hayawi, a Baghdad bookseller on Mutanabi Street

Unlike the U.S. soldiers who die in this conflict, the names of most Iraqi victims will never be published, consigned to the anonymity that death in the Iraqi capital brings these days. Hayawi was neither a politician nor a warlord. Few beyond Mutanabi Street even knew his name. Yet his quiet life deserves more than a footnote, if for no other reason than to remember a man who embraced what Baghdad was and tried to make sense of a country that doesn't make sense anymore. Gone with him are small moments of life, gentle simply by virtue of being ordinary, now lost in the rubble strewn along a street that will never be the same.
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In its heyday, this street embodied a generation-old saying: Cairo writes, Beirut publishes, Baghdad reads.
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When the Mongols sacked Baghdad in 1258, it was said that the Tigris River ran red one day, black another. The red came from the blood of nameless victims, massacred by ferocious horsemen. The black came from the ink of countless books from libraries and universities. Last Monday, the bomb on Mutanabi Street detonated at 11:40 a.m. The pavement was smeared with blood. Fires that ensued sent up columns of dark smoke, fed by the plethora of paper.