41 (thy gift of the earliest)

THY GIFT OF THE earliest flower came to me this morning, and came the faint tuning of thy light.

I am a bee that has wallowed in the heart of thy golden dawn,

My wings are radiant with its pollen.

I have found my place in the feast of songs in thy April, and I am freed of my fetters like the morning of its mist in a mere play.

 

 

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