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

GREAT SPIRIT

Great spirit,
Whose ghostly face
I see,
Where sound 
Be heard,
Or light
Observed,
Hiding,
Just beneath the ear,
Secreted in the eye,
Quivering
Within the tongue,
To steal sweet textures,
Or perched,
To pluck a fragrance
From the air,
Forever young
Your beating heart,
And fleet your feet
Upon the ground,
Shifting there,
As all the shapes,
Thus designed,
There,
Outlined
By the grace
And favour
Of curious delight,
Might your face
Be found. 
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