Amy Lowell
Your words are frost on speargrass,
Your words are glancing light
On foils at play,
Your words are shapely . . . buoyant as balloons,
They make brave sallies at the stars.
When your words fall and grow cold
Little greedy hands
Will gather them for necklets.
Your words are glancing light
On foils at play,
Your words are shapely . . . buoyant as balloons,
They make brave sallies at the stars.
When your words fall and grow cold
Little greedy hands
Will gather them for necklets.
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