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Poem by Eleanor Farjeon
Here lie I in the underworld of trees, Over my head I have a wave of leaves Through whose loose shimmering weave of mysteries The rays of heaven come in yellow sheaves Till every leaf is like an amber lamp Lit at the very source of golden light; The netted green has drawn the sun's own stamp And myriad tiny suns are in my sight, While such a radiant harmony, on wings I hear but see not, seems my world to throng I could believe the only voice that sings Is of the leafage sparkling into song. To-day within my soul I may contain As much melodic light as one fine leaf Receives from heaven and gives out again Into an underworld grown dim with grief.
Eleanor Farjeon's other poems:
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