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The Magic Sieve
by Florence Edsall

This screen door is a sieve;
Through it the day is drifting—
The smell of the sea and the sun,
And the shadows shifting
From tendrils of tossing vines,
The sweet frail spice
From a wild-rose bush
And the song of a thrush.

The sunset colors soon,
And then the light of the moon
Will sift through the old screen door
On to my kitchen floor.

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