Morning Dew Dries

The silence bowed graciously before me,
Including in its curtsy a foreboding sign,
And folding into itself as I lay,
Roared louder than its petty size ought permit.

And although it was quiet,
Cold, and lonesome,
The mossy walls implied their pleasure
By clapping furiously at the shades.

So I lay wondering, indecisively,
Whether that audience was there for
Me,
Or if all the music playing until now,
Was my own desperate fiction.

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