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Byron Herbert Reece The Thin Woman Upon the Road The thin woman upon the road Went lame and stooped under grief, Her constant insensible load; She'd a shawl like a tattered leaf Torn by the cat-pawed wind Then unsheathed the claws behind; That touched with a playful pad She was wild and wandering mad And had a hurt look in her eye That questioned herself as much As chance for the reason why; She had a stick in her clutch And leaned upon it and said: Only the whole can stay At home, and turn to their bed And rest, at the close of day: The maimed must look abroad Like a child for a lost plaything For the past-perfection of God That slipped from their handseling: I once seemed whole as the sphere Of the summer-ripened grape, But changed, as the tampering year Alters that shimmering shape; And something was snatched from my clutch That was perfect and circle-whole; But I'll never come upon such For there is a rent in my soul; The sun's a crimped coin in the sky, The plumb of the zenith is bent; There is nothing sound in my eye Because my
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Jan 8, 2003
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