POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
With the hope of hands,
For the fall of feet,
Though no pilgrim bands
Find our narrow street:
Would she from the loom
Rise, remembering so
How the heart must roam?
Then—would she let me go?
I GIVE THANKS
There's one that I once loved so much
I am no more the same.
I give thanks for that transforming touch.
I tell you not his name.
He has become a sign to me
For flowers and for fire.
For song he is a sign to me
And for the broken lyre.
And I have known him in a book
And never touched his hand.
And he is dead—I need not look
For him through his green land.
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