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Hilda Conkling

Mushroom Song

Oh little mushrooms with brown faces underneath

And bare white heads,

You think of summer and you think of song . . .

Why don't you think of me

In my little white bed

In the night?

You think only of your singsong and your dances,

Following your leader round and round,

You think only of the grass

And the green apples and leaves

Dropping out of the blue . . .

Why don't you think of me asleep

In my little white bed?

The wind thinks of me,

Brown-white dancers!

You forget,

But the wind remembers.