These feelings

In the softest shades of the night
He spoke to me,
Of chasing lions from the mountains
To the level of the sea,
Of curious, frozen fingers
Upon aged sycamore trees,
Of the feelings he has,
But cannot give freely.

It has long seemed a wonder to me,
How words sputter forth
Clouded mysteries,
How these fragments of passion
Pierce our vitality,
Syllables shelled and cracked
By the mouths of gluttony.

It does little good to wish,
I know, as the river runs to the sea
In its own good time; but for me,
Darkness swims beneath
This lush valley of green,
When I contemplate
These feelings I have,
But cannot give freely.

And this old, dormant earth,
In all its wild beauty,
Is taut and weighted
By silent misery;
For a million hearts still carry
With each swollen beat,
These feelings they have,
But cannot give freely.

About Louise

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