Coney Island

by Sara Teasdale

　　

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Why did you bring me here? The sand is white with snow, Over the wooden domes The winter sea-winds blow There is no shelter near, Come, let us go. With foam of icy lace The sea creeps up the sand, The wind is like a hand That strikes us in the face. Doors that June set a-swing Are bolted long ago; We try them uselessly Alas there cannot be For us a second spring; Come, let us go.

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