Monday, November 20, 2017
A Memory Comments
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THROUGH rifts of cloud the moon's soft silver slips;
A little rain has fallen with the night,
Which from the emerald under-sky still drips
Where the magnolias open, broad and white.
So near my window I might reach my hand
And touch these milky stars, that to and fro
Wave, odorous. . . . Yet 't was in another land —
How long ago, my love, how long ago!
...
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7/28/2025 2:28:19 AM # 1.0.0
