Arthur Stringer

The Wordless Touch

The sun on autumn hills, a twilight sea,
The touch of western gold on paling wings,
Soft rain by night, the flute of early birds,
And wind-tost children voices—these to me
Wake thoughts that sleep beyond the bourne of words,
Yet whisper low, "Whatever Life may be,
Mocked as it seemed by vague rememberings,
Thou, thou hast lived before, and known these things!"