Read more from the Being Truly Human April 1991 Newsletter
By Muriel Stuart
Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie, Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand, Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry — Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams, A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust: It will drink deeply of a century’s streams, These lilies shall make summer on, my dust.
Here in their safe and simple house of death, Sealed in their shells a million roses leap: Here I can blow a garden with my breath, And in my hand a forest lies asleep.
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