Do not sneer, stranger, if one by one,
The crowd who followed her are gone
To strangle their own shadows, or lie
Bitterly with a harlot. I
Have heard in a Bach fugue some phrase,
Perplexed with flowers and sunlight, wake
The green-leaved morning to her praise;
More generous, pitiful than we
However casual may be
The comment that her shoulders make.

May 1927

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 12 Number 10, on page 37
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