  Like the arms of a child lifting shining white lilies from a little brown pond, Sunlight drew songs from this lithe, grimacing negress Whose skin was smoother than the cloudless sky above her. The flecks of cotton they picked brought a changing white stupor To the negroes about her, but she swung down her row, With broad smiles cutting her pent-up satin face. And though the afternoon slowly pressed down her back, She never ceased humming to her joyous Christ. |
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