Poems by Theodore Harding Rand

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Silent, with hands crost meekly on his breast,
"Only a penny, Sir!"
A mossy footfall in this wood
O soul, that art essential change,
O come, unpack the heart of care!
Earth's manifold noises break
Shy bird of the silver arrows of song,
The lithe wind races and sings
"Time in advance behind him hides his wings." - YOUNG.
I would enshrine in silvern song