The gently quiet murmur of the summer rain, Falling on attic roofs, Brings to the store of old rejected things, below In the gabled darkened room, The thought of youth; As soft love-touches On the arched and narrowed shoulders of a spinster May recall The failing hopes and unremembered joys. And so on my heart, Filled with the past’s old dusty things, Falls now the sweet and gentle softness of your voice.
No posts