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| John Melhuish Strudwick |
of crocuses and primroses
when she laid her small white hand
lightly on his heart
her prayers for him were like
pale pink blossoms floating
on a river of light
to higher planes
she had found her voice to sing
and with her voice
she was calling his soul
imbuing strength
into his heart, hands, deeds
Around them in the twilight
a cool fragrant breeze arose
and a nightingale began to sing.
