 | The poems of Trumbull Stickney |  |
II
FRASCATIOh, mine Angelo,
These things creep out by every finger tip;
A footprint tells the tale. And women's love
Is noisy with perpetual echo; for they cry
In upper chambers whence the filtering sound
Grows tell-tale to the world; and next they write
Love-letters that go most directly wrong.
| The poems of Trumbull Stickney | |