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by Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1921

No matter what I say,
  All that I really love
Is the rain that flattens on the bay,
  And the eel-grass in the cove;
The jingle-shells that lie and bleach
  At the tide-line, and the trace
Of higher tides along the beach:
  Nothing in this place.

Published in Second April

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.