A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.

NOT I

Some will say
The moon is cold,
Not I,
Not I,
A wonder to behold
Whose alabaster glow
I know of old,
Present tonight,
Igniting a deep coil
The wick of memory,
Never running dry,
Burning the oil
Of infancy,
My quick,
The by and by,
Some will say
The moon is cold,
Not I,
Not I,
But comfort,
Set there
In the sky.
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