Poems (Nora May French)/The Message

by Nora May French

THE MESSAGE³

SO might it brush my cheek with errant wings,
  So might it speak with thrilling touch and light
Of answering eyes, of dim, unuttered things—
  A moth from hidden gardens of the night.

So, in a land of hills, where twilight lay,
 Might come a sudden bird-call to the ear,
Across the canyons, faint and far away . . .
 O Heart, how sweet . . . half heard and wholly dear.