7 (my songs are like bees)


MY SONGS ARE like bees; they follow through the air some fragrant trace-some memory-of you, to hum around your shyness, eager for its hidden store.

        When the freshness of dawn droops in the sun, when in the noon the air hangs low with heaviness and the forest is silent, my songs return home, their languid wings dusted with gold.

 

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