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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Frances Shaw

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Ragpicker

Frances Shaw

THE RAGPICKER sits and sorts her rags:

Silk and homespun and threads of gold

She plucks to pieces and marks with tags;

And her eyes are ice and her fingers cold.

The Ragpicker sits in the back of my brain;

Keenly she looks me through and through.

One flaming shred I have hidden away—

She shall not have my love for you.