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 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.
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.
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