Song Poem by Edward J. O'Brien
Song
She goes all so softly
Like a shadow on the hill,
A faint wind at twilight
That stirs, and is still.
She weaves her thoughts whitely,
Like doves in the air,
Though a gray mound in Flanders
Clouds all that was fair.
Saturday, January 4, 2003
Topic(s) of this poem: clouds
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8/28/2026 1:32:17 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
