Quatrains
1
Brushes and paints are all I have
To speak the music in my soul —
While silently there laughs at me
A copper jar beside a pale green bowl.
2
How strange that grass should sing —
Grass is so still a thing. . . .
And strange the swift surprise of snow
So soft it falls and slow.
Brushes and paints are all I have
To speak the music in my soul —
While silently there laughs at me
A copper jar beside a pale green bowl.
2
How strange that grass should sing —
Grass is so still a thing. . . .
And strange the swift surprise of snow
So soft it falls and slow.
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