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Lean spring came in, A living tide of green, White foam of blossom; I, a child, Barefooted on the clear sand, Saw the sun fall Straight and sharp in air; And I, afraid of horses, Screamed in surprise As the mare spun Knee-high in yellow flowers.

The stones That held the hills, The sky that held The sun and all its Spreading rays were of one Substance and my God Lay at my feet And spoke from out My shadow, eyed me From the bees. And he was not, or Else I—none could Say. The Chinamen Amid the lemon grove Lived with pale women And ate dogs and sang All night. What wonder, then, That I went mad