Service
Chide me not, darling, that I sing
Familiar thoughts and metres old:
Nay, do not scold
My spirit's childish uttering.
I know not why 't is that or this
I murmur to you thus or so:
Only I know
It throbs across my silences,
It blows over my heart,—a long
Infinite wind, again, again!
Again! and then
My life kneels down into a song.
poem by Trumbull Stickney
Added by Poetry Lover
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