By Luis G. Dato

Up by a leaping stream,
And cradled ‘neath a hill,
The hallowed moments seem
Eternity of thrill.

Over the roof cadenas creep,
Soft grasses clothe the lawn,
Which in the twilight weep
With waiting for the dawn.

At morn the butterflies
Are eagerly on the wing,
And, when the evening dies,
I hear the late bird sing.

There life is one with dream,
The cup is empty never,
Wherein griefs, falling, seem
Lost in the depths forever.

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