This man's hands are fashioned to his tools: his doing leaves no time for thought. This man's thought is shaped by old demands: his thinking leaves no time for love. "I dreamed of a cry lost in the wind." "I dreamed of a love that would not burn." The old thoughts find songs to dwell in.m The worn hands pause, warm with deeds. The lost cry becomes an answer. The silences find room for wordS. "O your slow light redeems Your late loving lets the dreams I wake to . . ." my words grow green. . . ."

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