Song
Edward J. O’Brien
She goes all so softly Like a shadow on the hill, A faint wind at twilight That stirs, and is still. She weaves her thoughts whitely, Like doves in the air, Though a gray mound in Flanders Clouds all that was fair.
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She goes all so softly Like a shadow on the hill, A faint wind at twilight That stirs, and is still. She weaves her thoughts whitely, Like doves in the air, Though a gray mound in Flanders Clouds all that was fair.
