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Farm Poem 16
E. E. Cummings Pronounced spring Mud-luscious, Puddle-wonderful, And reading this at age fifteen, I nearly fell from my wooden desk— November at Virginia’s oldest, Coldest high school, tepid Radiator tinking industrial notes, And the classroom smelling of Milton, A sesquicentennial of chalk dust. I had been born from that same spring, Feral on my grandparents’ farm, Vernal marsh spread below The slowly sinking