Poems by Arthur Sherburne Hardy
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Oft have I stood within the carven door
Within me are two souls that pity each
My window is the open sky,
Like the south-flying swallow the summer has flown,
Oh, what a night for a soul to go!
Not all the pageant of the setting sun
O Mary, Mother, if the day we trod
I have a friend who came, I know not how,
1
Deem not this book a creed, 't is but the cry
I
Fairer than we the woods of May,