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. There was a man and a woman
2. A spirit sped
3. The successful man has thrust himself
4. The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top
5. If I should cast off this tattered coat

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