More from Adelaide Crapsey

  1. I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.
  2. Listen. With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.
  3. These be Three silent things: The falling snow...the hour Before the dawn...the mouth of one Just dead.
  4. The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

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