  Eternal in the brooding of the old Norwegian spruces I hear the wistful tenderness of loves They used to know, And in the swelling wood-notes that the eager springtide looses Sobs again Their heart-break from the Springs of Long Ago: And sometime, thro’ the silence, with the April shadows lying Aslant the solemn acre where I take my dreamless rest, Perhaps the stifled need of You my heart was ever crying Will find its way across the years—to stir a stranger’s breast! The Poetry Journal Ruth Guthrie Harding |
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