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Briefly It Enters and Briefly Speaks

 I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years.
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I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper.
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When the young girl who starves sits down to a table she will sit beside me.
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I am food on the prisoner's plate.
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I am water rushing to the wellhead, filling the pitcher until it spills.
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I am the patient gardener of the dry and weedy garden.
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I am the stone step, the latch, and the working hinge.
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I am the heart contracted by joy.
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the longest hair, white before the rest.
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I am there in the basket of fruit presented to the widow.
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I am the musk rose opening unattended, the fern on the boggy summit.
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I am the one whose love overcomes you, already with you when you think to call my name.
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by Jane Kenyon
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