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Loretta Roche


For a Portrait

From ebony your hand has carved A mask for mirth, and you are starved For fruit that leaves upon the mouth Not honey-sweetness of the south, But acid for a tempered taste. No silken girdle binds your waist, But crinkled silver, set with gree [...]

Song On a Still Afternoon

Do you like my yellow leaves That rustled once in Arden, Or will you have rosemary From an English garden? Small hard berries redden now On that treeless hill, Near them bends a late blue larkspur One more frost will kill. You may have [...]