At
daybreak the dew lies still
Upon my fragrant herbs
And
sparkles in their silver songs
The
sun rises above the sky-edge
And
delights the lark
Upward
its listening heart is drawn
By
the light of it
Till, by some endless enclosing,
Sense
loses its reaching soul, for spirit,
And
the merely straight
For
a life that twirls as it flies.
*
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