At will do I rest Beneath that lonely garden, Like the summer rose A gentle insect did know. Follow, Bold harvest moon, On your pine needle path, Soft blanket for weary murmurs. To nature’s sanctum, I would follow Where you walk, Wild moss. Between the garden stones, Under a tendril root, Across the fading moor, To a deep river rock. Soon dusk will know me, bee. But let this breeze Play always In the trembling leaves.
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