  OUT in the garden as you played, A breeze moved to and fro Across my bed of larkspur In grave adagio. The wind with touch most delicate, Went up and down the scale— Wine-dark, frail amethyst, and blue, Blue as Our Lady’s veil. You played softly to yourself, Your brown hands on the keys; And God with larkspur, You with sound, were making harmonies. |
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