Thoughts may roam

In night’s still hours,

Like wraiths who trail

In woodland bowers,

Where rare vines creep in shadows deep

Amid the dew drenched flowers.


Like faint far echoes

A dim lost past

May flash like scenes

On canvass cast,

Or we may stray where shadows play

In some cathedral vast.


Thoughts may not pierce

The coming years,

The fabric close

Of hopes and fears,

But it may know the overflow

Of silent dropping tears.

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