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Adelaide Crapsey

AMONG the bumble-bees in red-top hay, a freckled field of brown-eyed Susans dripping yellow leaves in July,  
       I read your heart in a book.  
 
And your mouth of blue pansy—I know somewhere I have seen it rain-shattered.  
 
And I have seen a woman with her head flung between her naked knees, and her head held there listening to the sea, the great naked sea shouldering a load of salt.  
 
And the blue pansy mouth sang to the sea:  
       Mother of God, I’m so little a thing,  
       Let me sing longer,  
       Only a little longer.  
 
And the sea shouldered its salt in long gray combers hauling new shapes on the beach sand.

Cornhuskers. 1918.

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