 | The poems of Trumbull Stickney |  |
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DEDICATION
Soft be your journey as a bird's
Who, feeling winter whet the air,
Gyres and from the zenith there
Slants infinitely down southwards
On outspread wings
And sings.
Who, feeling winter whet the air,
Gyres and from the zenith there
Slants infinitely down southwards
On outspread wings
And sings.
Within my bosom blew this rose
That on the moonlit autumn wind
I toss to you—and may you find
Upon your pillow of repose
The flower of
My love.
That on the moonlit autumn wind
I toss to you—and may you find
Upon your pillow of repose
The flower of
My love.
| The poems of Trumbull Stickney | |