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1886–1950

III

John Gould Fletcher

One chuckles by the brook for me: One rages under the stone. One makes a spout of his mouth One whispers — one is gone.

One over there on the water Spreads cold ripples For me Enticingly.

The vast dark trees Flow like blue veils Of tears Into the water.

Sour sprites, Moaning and chuckling, What have you hidden from me? “In the palace of the blue stone she lies forever

Bound hand and foot.” Was it the wind That rattled the reeds together? Dry reeds,

A faint shiver in the grasses.

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III · John Gould Fletcher · Poetry Cove