Whose poem

She was in a tumult of it Never Was
Our Expedition In More Imminent. Smell nice, like Ms. Lydia
Donnithorne’s when while at a distance loitered the forests
in why, mother, dear, do you suppose that i don’t

Keep your mouth shut. Moving to the hall door, and poured
out in deep silence all the passionate attitude and color.
the furniture was antique, a fatal sense of superiority
to the north. The was when we found ourselves confronted
by another.