Lovelier are her words
than the exquisite notes
that speak the souls of flutes.
The songs of birds

at dusk, when the first-born star
swims in the willow tree,
are not more dear to me
than her songs are.

When she speaks, all sound begins
to tremble, and melt
in music rarer than the lilt
of violins.

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Her voice is more delicate
than the croon of wind in the coppice;
all the world's songs are poppies
under her feet.