Summer 1941 • Vol. III No. 3 Three PoemsJuly 1, 1941 |

On Page

What shall the bug do on the whipping page? Read it? That myself cannot, with more eye. Ride it, and travel nowhere in a rage? That takes a heavier spirit to comply. No, blot one letter of the sense at best, Or blur the period with a touch of wing, Being for an instant of the gale impressed How the margins labor and the visions spring.

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Wading

By Josephine Miles

What shall the bug do on the whipping page? Read it? That myself cannot, with more eye. Ride it, and travel nowhere in a rage? That takes a heavier spirit to […]

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