De Votre Bonheur Il Ne Reste Que Vos Photos Sipsce…
And the rain since
And I have not heard
Leaf at the pane all winter
Nor a bird's wing beating as that was
I have not seen
All year your leaning face again
Since I have never wakened but that smell
Of wet pine bark was in the room.
poem by Archibald MacLeish
Added by Poetry Lover
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