The leaves talked in the twilight, dear;
Hearken the tale
they told:
How in some far-off place and year,
Before the world
grew old,
I was a dreaming forest tree,
You were a wild,
sweet bird
Who sheltered at the heart of me
Because the north
wind stirred;
How, when the chiding gale was still,
When peace fell
soft on fear,
You stayed one golden hour to fill
My dream with
singing, dear.
To-night the self-same songs are sung
The first green
forest heard;
My heart and the gray world grow young—
To shelter you, my
bird.
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