Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.98

From Email:	Required Email Address Not Valid.
To Email:	Email Address Not Valid. Required
Subject	Required
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem	In my youth's years, she loved me, I am sure. The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenure And harked to me with smile -- without speed, Along the ringing holes of the reed, I got to play with my non-artful fingers The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers, And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade. >From morn till night in oaks' silent shade I diligently harked to the mysterious virgin; Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision, And taking locks aside of the enchanting face, She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace. The reed became alive in consecrated breathing And filled the heart with holiness unceasing.
	Type the characters you see in the picture Required