I'll meet you along the night road,
Not far from where an orchard showed
To me some lapping waters new,
For me at least, though more than a few
Lovers have gazed through to stones
Which seem to be time's very bones;
And then draw away eyes to a hill
That holds a river's promise still
In a grove where, softly blowing on leaves,
Walks desire herself, and aching breathes
Till grasses lean and bushes yearn
And desire lies down among the ferns.
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