| Well, I wouldn't call it a desert, he said,
I have a tree! I don't see that anyone would need To pity me. With a fine big cottonwood breaking the glare Of yellow sky, It doesn't seem any more, to stare So hot and high. And the tree makes, at night, when the sheep are fed Some place to go; Through it, the stars do not look, he said, So hot and low . . . |
Seesaw
May Williams Ward
page 54
(Atlanta: The Bozart Press. 1929)
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