A Woman of Thirty by Marjorie Allen Seiffert
page 69 of 85 (81%)
page 69 of 85 (81%)
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Harsh rain
Whips down the rustling dance Of leaves. There is smoke In the throat of the wind, Its teeth Bite away beauty. Let fools say: "Spring Will come again!" Disillusion I touch joy and it crumbles under my fingers-- The dust from it rises and fills the world, It blinds my eyes--I cannot see the sun. A choking fog of dust shuts me apart. I remember the sparkling wind on a bright autumn morning, I let down my hair and danced in the golden gale, Then chased the wind as the wind chased fallen leaves-- Wind cannot be caught and tamed like a bird. I touch joy and it crumbles to dust in my fingers. November Afternoon Upon our heads |
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