Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon

* * *

Pale are the words I build for my delight
To house in; pale as the chill mist that holds
An ardent morn. My fire to others' sight
But dimly burns through the frail speech it moulds;
I cast but shadows from my inward light.
But, O my Joy, thou understandest well
Both what I can and what I cannot tell.

1. The Woods Entry
2. One Year Old
3. Winter Sunrise
4. The Healers
5. The Children Dancing

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