Читать книгу Poems - French Nora May - Страница 6

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.