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Girl

Girl Jane Mayhall Appalachian Heritage, Volume 14, Number 4, Fall 1986, p. 4 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1986.0054 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/437470/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 21:23 GMT from JHU Libraries Girl In however she moves, the nature is uppermost, sunburned skin, hyacinth eyes. And she is a portrait of stance, magnet degree throwback of an appearance giving joy. The girl is beautiful and probably good. You can think it so, in the sylvan, slim half-gestures; arms, limbs and as smooth as bamboo in her unparalleled phases and lack of self-conscious disorientation. She lives on a farm, and of that same species wordless; no need to invent. Walking through wet grass, instep and foot are temperate, yet circumspect of origin; she is history of a blossom. And like wit, the challenge unrivalled by any other glowing raiment flower in the field. —Jane Mayhall MSt. Time My butterfly, my butterfly, My pretty swift-winged day. You suck the honey from my lips And then you flit away. How can you go when there is yet So much that's left untasted Of life and love and happiness. Of sweet caress and tenderness. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Girl

Mayhall, Jane.
Appalachian Review , Volume 14 (4) – Jan 8, 2014
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
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Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Jane Mayhall Appalachian Heritage, Volume 14, Number 4, Fall 1986, p. 4 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1986.0054 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/437470/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 21:23 GMT from JHU Libraries Girl In however she moves, the nature is uppermost, sunburned skin, hyacinth eyes. And she is a portrait of stance, magnet degree throwback of an appearance giving joy. The girl is beautiful and probably good. You can think it so, in the sylvan, slim half-gestures; arms, limbs and as smooth as bamboo in her unparalleled phases and lack of self-conscious disorientation. She lives on a farm, and of that same species wordless; no need to invent. Walking through wet grass, instep and foot are temperate, yet circumspect of origin; she is history of a blossom. And like wit, the challenge unrivalled by any other glowing raiment flower in the field. —Jane Mayhall MSt. Time My butterfly, my butterfly, My pretty swift-winged day. You suck the honey from my lips And then you flit away. How can you go when there is yet So much that's left untasted Of life and love and happiness. Of sweet caress and tenderness.

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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