Arthur John Arbuthnott Stringer

The Wordless Touch

The sun on autumn hills, a twilight sea,
The touch of western gold on paling wings,
Soft rain by night, the flute of early birds,
And wind-tost children voices--these to me
Wake thoughts that sleep beyond the
bourne of words,
Yet whisper low, "Whatever Life may be,
Mocked as it seemed by vague remem-
Thou, thou hast lived before, and known
these things!"

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