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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 | ||