Poem by Stephen Crane

The Way Your Little Finger Moved

AH, God, the way your little finger moved
As you thrust a bare arm backward
And made play with your hair
And a comb a silly gilt comb
Ah, God--that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved. 

1. If I should cast off this tattered coat
2. Blustering God
3. Two or three angels
4. The successful man has thrust himself
5. With eye and with gesture

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