The Song of my Heart

A blanket, wrapped, did fall
from over wicker cage—
a basket or a golden carry-all—
and with it flew an ebon rage
upon the doves of heaven.
They pirouetted, by and by
yet though we cried for thoughts to leaven
they flew on until the sun between them sighed,
us standing pinioned beneath
daggers flown beyond their sheath.

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