Words

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The birds and stars are going about

Their steady evening muse,

Free from culture – who could doubt?

And so far more in tune.

I gazed ‘pon the shores and ‘pon the brooks

And ‘pon the tide drawn rills,

O ‘pon the scattered shells I looked

To capture with the quill.

How I wish I could descend

Into those curling blues, the glens

Of corralled rock and salty lanes

Down to where the sea gods reign.

Alas! My lines of inky verse

Would surely take their flight

And drain away to bot’mless depths

That never see the light.

Our thoughts are fragile things.

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