Poets sing in the voice of birds
and write upon the wind
and like the birds of summers past
they sleep like death like spring.
O do not tell me you understand
and feel that lift of wing
unless you too shall speak a word
that makes an old heart sing.
Just so a call from winter's waste
does wake me from my feathered rest:
so fair a word, so fair a face,
all wind and song, all bird and ache.
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