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[小升初阅读] AmyLowell:TheCross

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A bullet through his heart at dawn. On

the table a letter signed

with a womans name. A wind that goes howling round the

house,

and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through

the windows,

cold dawn creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs,

creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face.

A glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind

howling

through bent branches. A wind which never dies down. Howling,

wailing.

The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight. The lids are

frozen open

and the eyes glitter.

The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding

and crunching.

Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, scattering;

tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging

branches apart,

drawing them together, whispering and whining among them. A

waning,

lobsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream

of pebbles and earth

and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed

again

into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men

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