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.
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