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Poem by Jones Very
’Tis to yourself I speak; you cannot know Him whom I call in speaking such an one, For thou beneath the earth lie buried low, Which he alone as living walks upon; Thou mayst at times have heard him speak to you, And often wished perchance that you were he; And I must ever wish that it were true, For then thou couldst hold fellowship with me; But now thou hear’st us talk as strangers, met Above the room wherein thou liest abed; A word perhaps loud spoken thou mayst get, Or hear our feet when heavily they tread; But he who speaks, or him who’s spoken to, Must both remain as strangers still to you.
Jones Very's other poems:
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