Your voice is the color of a robinís breast, And thereís a sweet sob in it like rain--still rain in the night. Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest, The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delight Like the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat. Iím afraid of your eyes, theyíre so bold, Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold. But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on the lips of the eucharis Before the sun comes warm with his loverís kiss. You are sea-foam, pure with the starís loveliness, Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty-shorn earth. All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their wealth to your birth. Oh I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I feel it is wrong! But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit burdened with flesh, Forever, life-long.
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