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poet

Adelaide Crapsey

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by this poet

poem
I know 
Not these my hands 
And yet I think there was 
A woman like me once had hands 
Like these. 
poem
Listen. . .
With faint dry sound, 
Like steps of passing ghosts, 
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees 
And fall.
poem
If it 
Were lighter touch 
Than petal of flower resting 
On grass, oh still too heavy it were, 
Too heavy!