On the porch, green-shuttered, cool,Asleep is Bertram, that bronze boy,Who, having wound her around a spool,Sends her spinning like a toyOut to the garden, all alone,To sit and weep on a bench of stone.Soon the purple dark will bruiseLily and bleeding-heart and rose,And the little Cupid loseEyes and ears and chin and nose,And Jane lie down with others soonNaked to the naked moon.
-Donald Justice
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