By J. V. Cunningham
There is no stillness in this wood.
The quiet of this clearing
Is the denial of my hearing
The sounds I should.
There is no vision in this glade.
This tower of sun revealing
The timbered scaffoldage is stealing
Essence from shade.
Only my love is love’s ideal....
The quiet of this clearing
Is the denial of my hearing
The sounds I should.
There is no vision in this glade.
This tower of sun revealing
The timbered scaffoldage is stealing
Essence from shade.
Only my love is love’s ideal....