When the boat carrying her sank
Just off Staten Island, her memoirs
Swam to shore, where the wind
Read them, leaving the pages
Scattered for miles. No one
Has read them since.
Though Henry Thoreau spent days
Gathering the wet pages, the words
Made good their escape. Someday
A learned gull or scholarly crab
May track them down or conjure up
Margaret Fuller to write them again
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