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Poem by Hilda Doolittle
Little scavenger away, touch not the door, beat not the portal down, cross not the sill, silent until my song, bright and shrill, breathes out its lay. Little scavenger avaunt, tempt me with jeer and taunt, yet you will wait to-day; for it were surely ill to mock and shout and revel; it were more fit to tell with flutes and calathes, your motherТs praise.
Hilda Doolittle's other poems:
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