And tell me by Peter Shefler And tell me‐ before the night grows long‐ who was it, whispering, in the snow-drifted firs‐ who spoke in glad silences and lifted their eyes as if out of dreams? It was not you, for you were gone‐ and no one knows the reasons now, nor why I chose the timeless star-spilled skies, and could not find you in any real or unreal place‐ in any space of days and years‐ you passed between my outstretched hands, eclipsed, and came to me but like sweet snow against my face melting into tears.
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