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.

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