| Harriet Monroe, ed. (18601936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917. |
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| 25. The Rear Porches of an Apartment-Building |
| | | By Maxwell Bodenheim |
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| A SKY that has never known sun, moon or stars, | |
| A sky that is like a dead, kind face, | |
| Would have the color of your eyes, | |
| O servant-girl, singing of pear-trees in the sun, | |
| And scraping the yellow fruit you once picked | 5 |
| When your lavender-white eyes were alive
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| On the porch above you are two women, | |
| Whose faces have the color of brown earth that has never felt rain. | |
| The still wet basins of ponds that have been drained | |
| Are their eyes. | 10 |
| They knit gray rosettes and nibble cakes
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| And on the top-porch are three children | |
| Gravely kissing each others foreheads | |
| And an ample nurse with a huge red fan
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| The passing of the afternoon to them | 15 |
| Is but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls. | |
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