Oct 182014
 
Go, little heart, into a song
That flies away the while,
Chirruping with the dashing catbird there
Who flits through a country stile.

My eye her errant ecstasy
Follows along a dotted line....
Stretched to cotton majesties of cloud
Where she disappears like Time.

When my song comes singing back
To me, from frosty Everest returned, note
How my voice at highest pitch remains
Till I'm ashes in an urn.


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