Caprice
Who will be naming the wind That lifts me and leaves me; Swelleth my budding flame, Foully bereaves me? From the land whose forgotten name Man shall not find, Blowest thou, wind? Clara Shanafelt...
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14
November
Her face is fair and smooth and fine, Childlike, with secret laughter lit, Drooping in pity, bright with wit, A flower, a flameāGod fashioned it. Who sees her tastes the sacred wine. Clara Shanafelt...
Read MoreShe burst fierce wine From the tough skin of pain, Like wind that wrings from rigid skies A scant and bitter gleam, Has folded all the valleys in. Clara Shanafelt...
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