Poem by Stephen Crane

The Way Your Little Finger Moved

AH, God, the way your little finger moved
As you thrust a bare arm backward
And made play with your hair
And a comb a silly gilt comb
Ah, God--that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved. 

1. To the maiden
2. Two or three angels
3. You tell me this is God?
4. Behold, from the land of the farther suns
5. Many red devils ran from my heart

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