Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/108

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Scrub trees crouched low on mountainside,
Their fingers locked and bared
Upon black rocks; at base great spruce
Stood close and leaned and stared.

The house, with up-curled shingles, hugged
The ground, a silent thing,
Like a gray bird squatting on its perch
In a cage, and cannot sing.

When she went up to bake for him,
To tend the house and such,
His deafness was a sorry chafe
She pitied overmuch.

A day came when he ceased to speak;
She did not care, for he
Was far more ugly in his speech
Than there was need to be.

But when the long days dragged on by
Without a word from him,
The crumbs of peace fell from her mind
As leaves drop from a limb.

At first she zigzagged in her mind
'Twixt old Hen Levy's Place
And his: she knew Four Corners brooked
No showing of her face.

And then she planned shrill words to shriek
To stab his deafness through;
And he would watch, with cunning eye,
Her stirred mind's boil and brew.

Then slyly he would egg her on:
He'd cup his ear with hand,
The while her throat rasped hoarse with words
She hoped he's understand.

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