[Smant-users] T Free from the snare. Tell her a bleeding hand Bound it and tied it

[Lafosse <thi...@dt...>]

Our noon, Drown amid buttercups, laugh with the intimate grass, Dream
there forever.... But, being older, sadder, Having not you, nor aught
save thought of you, It is not spring I'll choose, but fading summer;
Not noon I'll choose, but the charmed hour of dusk. Poppies? A few! And
a moon almost as red.... But most I'll choose that subtler dusk that
comes Into the mind--into the heart, you say-- When, as we look
bewildered at lovely things, Striving to give their loveliness a name,
They are forgot