Come trail my love to its tracks
While they still keep off rust,
While they still ignore the cracks,
And while they still dread the dust.
And trust, love,
That life is too finite
And so much like a dove
That has no real right
To perch still for a cure
That hides from sight
And makes unsure-
That tires of trying to see
That darkness in the corner
That fears to free
Itself- and boldly enter...
But it's silence
That I still hear;
Tempts hoarsely in my ear...
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Comments about this poem (Hither by Robert Lansing )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941)
(31 March 1934 – 31 May 2009)
(16 April 1918 – 27 February 2002)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(January 30, 1935 – September 14, 1984)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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