Clay that was fashioned of sand,
Ripple-marked by the long years;
Let me but hold, love, your hand;
I shall forget all my fears.
What though the Pale Singer come,
Putting cold lips to my ear;
Through with the bugle and drum,
May I not quite gladly hear?
Out of this palace of dust
Let the wind blow, and be still!
One with the tongues that are hushed,
Lo, I shall wander at will!
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Other Poems of Interest...
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