Amy Lowell

Why do the lilies goggle their tongues at me

When I pluck them;

And writhe and twist,

And strangle themselves against my fingers,

So that I can hardly weave the garland

For your hair?

Why do they shriek your name

And spit at me

When I would cluster them?

Must I kill them

To make them lie still,

And send you a wreath of lolling corpses

To turn putrid and soft

On your forehead

While you dance?

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