Adelaide Crapsey

I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.

Listen. With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

These be Three silent things: The falling snow...the hour Before the dawn...the mouth of one Just dead.

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

My object to venture the suggestion that an important application of phonetics to metrical problems lies in the study of phonetic word-structure.