When Lamb's Tongue casts a fragile spell Of six-point stars in Deepwood's dell I touch their pearly-yellow glow

That guides me back to long ago.

High on a hill, a rain-bright sheen

Cloaks the slant of a willow's lean

Where I lost my heart to the quiet grace

Of Lamb's Tongue in a secret place.

Now, again, I am named

To follow something still untamed

When Deepwood's dell is rife with bloom

Carpeting a wildwood-room.

How shall I answer, who shall say?

A voice calls, ''Come!'' Another, ''Stay . . .''

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