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The Gift

By Godfrey John / December 7, 1995

You sent to me a moth

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as pale as any bone.

It lay with quiet wing;

it would not fly away.

Some silence of yourself,

some secret of the moon,

it solaced on my sleeve

until the woken day -

until the thought of loss

or broken hope had flown.

You sent to me a moth;

you did not tell me why.