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White Birches in Autumn

ISSUE:  Autumn 1931

WHITE trees, golden trees,
Crooking to the sea,
Already have you taken my heart,
Take the rest of me.
Oh, naught that I say,
Oh, nothing that I do,
Can keep you from my sight,
Can rid my mind of you!

Thin down to a single bough,
A single bough, no more,
A reasonable loveliness,
One candle at a door.
Else make an end of me,
White, golden in the dust;
Trample me underheel,
Grind me into the dust!


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