The Moon's The North Wind's Cooky
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Vachel Lindsay
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The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there's but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.
The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!
Kamu malı: şairin ölümünün üzerinden 70 yıldan fazla geçti.
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