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C/o Postmaster … New York … San Francisco

ISSUE:  Summer 1943

Think what is waiting, in blue fields of air,
Or hid in grass, or through bright water going,
Or, shy and eager in woods (though none comes there),
Known only, now, in a remembered knowing;
Or hiding beneath sound, in the grave voice That covers away the thing that the heart meant,
But seen when the eyes meet and may rejoice In the quick glance where understanding went.
In the blue morning, hid from most that pass Blind and unloving . . . in an evening place . . .
Waiting . . . alive and secret . . . peering from grass . . .
In woods at noon . . . in the slow way one face Will turn and look, the way a voice will sound—
Shapes of your loves that wait, that long to be found.


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