Cinquains - Poem by Adelaide Crapsey
Were tissue of silver
I'll wear, O fate, thy grey,
And go mistily radiant, clad
Like the moon.
Old winds that blew
When chaos was, what do
They tell the clattered trees that I
Out of the strange
Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . .
A white moth flew . . . Why am I grown
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
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