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Second Woman. Never spill your wine
   Upon a page of mathematics.
   Drink it decently
   Within the usual tavern.

Poetry, A Magazine of VerseMaxwell Bodenheim


PINE TREES
The pine trees patiently unstitch
The brightness of this afternoon,
But while they work their pungent thoughts
Are longing for the dulcet moon.

The pine trees only live at night
When moonlight brings them silver eyes;
Throughout the day they stand like blind
Green beggars, uttering restless cries.

At night they listen to the words
Of winds from far-off mountain rims,
And feel the reckless grief that springs
From those who stand with prisoned limbs.

The Literary ReviewMaxwell Bodenheim
N. Y. Evening Post

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