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. Blustering God
2. Many workmen
3. I walked in a desert
4. Love walked alone
5. The trees in the garden rained flowers

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