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Adelaide Crapsey

by
 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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