Or rush of feathers winging....
Dost thou fear death as I? Ah no, but thy lips are against my cheek
Murmuring tenderly
The perfumed lies stolen from spring that wistfully through the bleak
Windows of frost so slenderly
Steals her little ghost's flute. Thou tellest of things that might be
If life were as kind as a lover,
If we were beloved of the world and the world of we.
Thy white words hover
Dove-like in rose leaf evenings over the nest