Footsteps born of quietness
slowly in a saintly trance
drawing near this narrow bed,
stronghold of my vigilance:
spirit, shade or living flesh,
soft, how soft your patient tread.
If the lips my mind can see,
silently advancing now,
mean to place a healing kiss,
mark of plain humanity,
gentle on my puzzled brow,
hurry not such tenderness.
All that candid dreams impart
comes to me on your bare feet
and I have lived but to await
these footsteps of my beating heart.
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