The lank leaves offer her a little shade,
But still she hates the dust of the clay road
And noon’s bright clang on the cannery roof.
The revivalists have set up a tent.
All day it’s glowed with a yellow fever.
For her, the rifted hardpan stands hard proof
Of this world that the body must endure.
The soul, too, like money must finally be spent.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 7 Number 8, on page 41
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