Three Uncollected Poems

The Orange Charger

My sacred charge
On you will I spring
All joy and tenderness,
Whose song falls into the air
Like a shower of dew,
So pure, so fresh, it
Each time is heard.
Who sings late in the mornings,
Or in some strange way
When no other bird sings,
So that your voice is signalled out
For its willing ease to please.
When rain is drawn from the sky,
Days of it …
And I sit all day at that window
This day and next …
Watching that rain,
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