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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Jeanne D’Orge

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

Matins

Jeanne D’Orge

THE CRUST of sleep is broken

Abruptly—

I look drowsily

Through the wide crack.

I do not know whether I see

Three minds, bird-shaped,

Flashing upon the bough of morning;

Or three delicately tinted souls

Butterflying in the sun;

Or three brown-fleshed, husky children

Sprawling hilarious

Over my bed

And me.