Reaching, Touching

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Reaching,Touching

poems

Orcelia Birge Winn


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Reaching,Touching



Reaching,Touching

Orcelia BirgeWinn

StillWoods Press Milton, Connecticut


Reaching,Touching Copyright Š 2009 by Orcelia BirgeWinn Printed in the United States of America Book Designer:Virginia Anstett Library of Congress Control: 2009908678 ISBN: 978-1-61623-168-2

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To my parents,William Cornelius Birge and Mercy Stock Birge, and my children,WilliamWinslowWinn, Jr., James BirgeWinn, Linda JeanneWinn and Peter NashWinn, and to my beloved granddaughter, JenniferWinn Ferrara, with love and gratitude for their encouragement and inspiration, and in memory of my husband,WilliamWinslowWinn, who showed me what life was really all about. – Orcelia B.Winn

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Contents

I The Pixies Thoughts In April Inspiration Vanity Momentary Man as Compared to Nature Leaf Portrait Rainy Weather, N.Y. In the City Cloud (Japanese Style) Knell Spring at Night Poetry – Maker Missing in Action Before Rain Night of Rain Midnight Vigil Exit April Sunday Walk; p.m. Fragment Fate

1 1 3 3 4 4 5 5 5 6 6 7 8 9 9 11 12 13 13 14 15 15

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Autumn End Late AutumnWoods Night Day’s End On Death and Life TheWindy Hill There Is No Returning My Son, My Son Snow Autumn in October Midnight Longing Bedtime The Question Day of Rain Precarious Peace And Yet Myself Linda Jeanne Love – Poem To My Father (on his final illness) Grief To Maria Augusta Teall Stock (my poet grandmother) Biography Her Majesty Little Angel My Baby Sleeps

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16 16 17 17 18 19 20 22 23 23 24 25 25 26 26 27 28 28 29 30 31 32 32 34 35 36


Misfit Beatitude Curriculum Pattern OneYear My Special Flower Sonnet to My Sons Testament Midnight Singing Night Dreams Shelving Day The Benefit of Silence OnWriting Poetry Midnight Rain Rain in the Night Patience Phantom Night Peter Awake Lullaby from Outer Space Claim to Fame Rhythms Revelations February Moon Gemini 8 October in Fog I Am Only I Balance

37 37 38 39 39 40 40 42 43 44 44 45 45 46 47 47 48 48 49 49 50 51 51 52 53 53 54

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And So They Go Peter (When he was 11) Musings (of an Astronaut) Bick Marty Fancy To Rai (Lorraine Alice Marek Winn) Moonrise Day-Start Summer Day With March Jim A Summer Morning A Dream I Dreamed Restlessness Caught OneYear Later But … Jim? These I Know Jennifer’s Birth Day I January Thaw Granddaughter My LoveWindy Season of Grief San Francisco at Night Footsteps Your Birthday

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55 55 56 57 59 60 60 62 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 72 73 74 74 75 75 76 77


Lonely Days To an Old Dog (Pepper) Into Shreds Mother’s House Reaching New Day My Day Humanity The Circle Perhaps A Granddaughter Me Evening Moment April Jennifer’s Gifts Children Tonight Oration Summertime Jennifer Overnight Small Treasures Love Life Passing On Top of Mohawk Mountain I Am These Jennifer at Nine Jennifer’s Home

78 78 79 79 81 81 82 83 84 84 85 86 87 87 88 88 89 89 90 91 91 92 93 94 95 96 97

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Where Do the Poems Go? Jennifer on the Pond The Rainbow July 10, 1989 Enigma I Remember Haiku Morning Moment Grandmothers Ages of Jennifer Forsythia in October Around the Square To J. Bentley Winn Jan Once as I Lived Even a Cloudy Day Insignificance Summer – Full IWonderWhy Unsung Poem Small Contentment Of the Spirit Church Service Sabbath Happy Day Neighbors’ Lights Ordinary Day

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98 99 99 100 101 102 103 103 104 104 105 105 106 107 108 108 109 109 110 111 111 112 113 113 113 114 115


Today I Am Dear Sister Third Son October Rain Definitions MorningWind A Dingy, Dreary Day AVision of Gold Aftermath of Terror Thunderstorm Ruth’s at 2:00 Mixed-up Seasons Old Grief Son’s Gift Fog Good Parents Artist One False Spring One Bird at Day’s End Summer Rain Quiet Morning TheWoodsman Rose Haven, Litchfield

115 116 117 117 118 118 119 119 120 120 120 121 121 122 123 123 124 124 125 125 126 127 127 128

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II John, the Man Woman Man Why? Stranger TheVillage of Milton, Connecticut I Remember Jim

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131 137 139 141 145 148 151


I



The Pixies March 12, 1933 (?)

They dance and prance and caper and twist in the light of the glowing moon. At dawn they stop to rest a bit in a cool and shady place. At eve they start to dance again and they dance and dance all night.

Thoughts in April March 10, 1939

The April rain came softly, falling still And silvery on the distant woods and hill; And soon it went. Then I stole forth before the world was out And found among the sodden leaves a sprout Of green. A scent Of rain-soaked bark I breathed, so damp, so clean

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And saw upon the world the pearly sheen Of tears, as on the cheeks of Baby, spent. And wrapped around the black roots of the trees, So soft, translucent in the breeze, I saw white fog As, hovering through the woods it stopped to play (As any child would stop along his way) Around a bog. In pensive silence for a time I stood And gazed with wonder through the depths of wood And heard the gruff-voiced comments of a frog. The woods dripped steadily. I moved my eyes To where I heard a bluejay’s scornful cries. I knelt to see Again the sprout and dug from it the leaves I wondered whether any man believes No mystery Surrounds our lives, no miracles exist? And is there yet a man who can resist The newborn beauty April brought to me?

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Inspiration September 25, 1939

Once when I came Of a sudden on a lake I stood pondering, in thought. A bird, startled By my presence, flew. It left the wings I sought; I flew, too.

Vanity October 4, 1939

When she looked on the pond … So quiet and smooth … And exclaimed at the beauty fair I noticed it wasn’t the pond she saw But her visage mirrored there.

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Momentary November 17, 1939

Out of the silence And blackness of night A bit of cloud … A milkweed sprite … Came; Then left ….. So life.

Man as Compared to Nature March 15, 1940

Man is so complex The wind blows right through him. Man is so deep The sea with a wave can drown him. Man is so grand The pine trees to nothingness dwarf him. Man is so intelligent He cannot even understand the ways of nature.

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Leaf March 16, 1940

Leaf … on the pond, Floating aimlessly, Hovering ’round the mossy tree … O leaf, Drift over here to me.

Portrait May 27, 1940

She leaned against the cool wall And smiled … Her hand outstretched … A lazy kind of smile, slow To come and slow to disappear.

Rainy Weather, N.Y. September 25, 1940

Rain and puddles Splashing Wet hands, wet feet, Dripping umbrella

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Which jostles the crowd Hurrying on in the rain. Brief respite in station In subway and train; Otherwise dampness, umbrellas and rain.

In the City September 25, 1940

What are your mountains but hills House-invested Cloaked in the fog from the factory’s breath. I want my mountains, the mountains of home Virginal forests Where fog is but mist of the early morn And where Nature alone holds sway.

Cloud (Japanese Style) January 24, 1941

O cloud … soft White and floating … Let me lie upon your breast And sleep.

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Knell April 23, 1941

Rain pattered steadily, slowly And brown leaves floated, soaked, On the dripping brook. Chickens half-heartedly Pecked at the ground And the dog whined to come in. Her hand lay, white and motionless, On the windowsill As she sat gazing over the fields ‌ She sat staring and sightless. Once she turned and stroked the dog And seemed about to speak But turned again to stare and stare Beyond the rainy day. He sat bowed in the corner, Hard hands clenched white, Just sat and stared; And once he raised his head To look at her, Conscious, perhaps, of the ash-gray hearth And the rain.

•

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Neither spoke. What could they say? Tragedy, grief, agonized tears Which would not flow Lay between them … sharp; And even the rain Could not wash clean their knotted emotions Or soften their grief. Rain pattered steadily on. They sat and stared. Death was in their hearts … The death of their laughing child. And the rain pattered steadily on.

Spring at night January 18, 1942

Through the dusk The lilacs … pale and starry … Catch the moon deep in their hands And hold its face And kiss it.

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Poetry – Maker March 20, 1942

I grasp the shadow with both my hands And throw it out of the world; Then There is no longer mist Between the world And me.

Missing in Action August 28, 1943

He was so young And so gay, So happy, so proud of himself; So eager to be in it And at them … Not hiding behind a woman’s skirts Or a mother’s tears. He went Because his heart was the heart of a fine young man, And because his mother was brave And his father was strong.

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He went because he had a job to do … He wanted to do it; And now He’s missing in action. Somewhere Over there He may be still living. Someday He may return. He’s missing in action, they said. His plane flew high, And low; His plane … strong as himself, But like him vulnerable. He may be gone … And if he is The good God above, who judges each man for himself, Will know he went down as he flew … Young and sure and glad and brave. My tears are gone For now; My heart is quiet. I try to think:

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I must be brave, like him; He would not like to think I cried that whole day long When they said he was missing in action.

Before Rain February 17, 1944

There’s weighted suspense In the air … All nature waits the rain. Somewhere The rain is falling … There is mist along the hills. Leaves move uneasily Hung by a moment In the moist full wind; The gray-clad sky is lost In its own identity, And over the fields It pushes restlessly … Potent and swollen with rain. •

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Down in the woods the brook Is turgid and brown, Following the curve of the land As it whispers down To the pool at the meadow’s end. There’s electric waiting … Taut with imminence … Breathless as summer nights Silent and sure.

Night of Rain February 18, 1944

Rain whispers on the roof And through the house. Wind … Full of rain, and warm … Moves in the room.

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MidnightVigil March 25, 1944

Through the night, laden with unvoiced sound, I hear the rush of pines and river In the west Like a wind, worn-out and pushed for rest, Hanging a moment longer than it should To sigh, And whisper a word To the sky.

Exit April April 27, 1944

April is past ‌ Elusive, like a woman, It slips from my grasp Into time. Rain it left here And sober skies Which drop a tear On the meadows.

•

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Green trees it brought … Red maples delight; Some peace I sought It carried with it away. April is past; Taken its tears and smiles; And now, too fast, Comes summer-time.

SundayWalk; p.m. October 2, 1944

We walked along the country road This afternoon, we two, Watching the clouds above us, high And the trees and the wind; and you Said it was peace … this day, this walk The two of us high on the hill … And the lovely autumn flamed and burned And the country was warm and still And the wind blew gently past us there Where the meadow stretched far away … Purple with aster and gold with sun; Where you found a peace today.

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Fragment March 6, 1945

March woods cloaked with fog And shivering with rain Stretch black and gray into the night.

Fate March 21, 1945

Happiness is momentary … Like the flash of a bird On the wing … You cannot hold it long In your hand … It flies away; And as it goes comes sorrow In its stead. All life is this: A flash of great and thrilling joy Which does not last, But rather makes a path For sorrow’s heavy feet.

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Autumn End October 24, 1945

Milkweed, Like snow Which it foretells, Darts over the meadow And blows away. Soft milkweed, Light as a fairy feather; Soon there will be snow in the air And the milkweed will be gone.

Late AutumnWoods November 22, 1945

Late autumn woods Surrender to drabness and serenity ‌ Blue lake, Unbordered save for dead bushes, Reflects the bluer sky ‌ What peace in ugliness, What beauty in our pain.

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Night March 2, 1946

Dilatory night So late after the day … Brush not the phantoms of day From our eyes.

Day’s End March 22, 1946

The sibylline night Steals down the darkening plain Soft-footed, silent, sure Till day’s untarnished course Is but an apparition of its former self, A mockery, And all that was is past.

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On Death and Life March 22, 1946

Death, the somnolent walker, Stumbles drunkenly After the ravages of life Picking the carcasses of desecrated mortals Like a plunder-bird Hovering darkly and shapelessly Over the fields of yesterday. Life, one step before Death, One breath (then from being To nothingness) Grasps at the shadow Lest, in one instant, That which was is not And in passing Death retrieves its own.

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TheWindy Hill June 9, 1946

High on a hill I flaunted my love To all who would listen to me … And the winds roared loud upon the hill And I laughed with being free … But the night came down, and the sun was gone, And the world below me slept; And I was alone on the windy hill With my flaunted love; and I wept. Till a lonely being wandered by And spoke through the night-wind roar: “The world will awake with tomorrow’s dawn And will listen to you once more.” Then I rose and went down to the land below, The land I had known so well; And when the world woke and waited for me I had nothing of love to tell.

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There Is No Returning August 8, 1946

Deep in my soul Dormant and reclining Is savagery, Pushed carefully away Through long long years of civilization, Unrecognized ‌ But, I ask this: Is it too far from me In life today, So firmly subjected By my forebears (whose characteristics I am) That it cannot ever be awakened? And, if once aroused, Is there any returning to this day? Black primitive night Untouched by us (We children of light and consciousness) Steal softly upon me, Drown me with heaviness, Pour over me your darkness. Blot out the light. I am no longer one; I am unknown and unseeing, A being among beings,

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Indistinct and inseparable … I cannot fight (except for preservation of body … Self is no longer awareness) For my mind is that of a child, But lesser … I grope; the darkness is part of me, I am the darkness And I do not recognize myself. Fade, O midnight; Send back the gleam of my individuality Won through centuries of culture. All the world is gray … Murky, unmoving gray; No darkness, no glimmer of light, No tangibility … I am not even darkness, I am a lost being Without substance … My eyes see without seeing; I hear, but distinguish no sound; I breathe, and do not know that I live. I am without consciousness, Yet not unconscious; Awake, yet sleeping, I cannot even pray again for light.

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My Son, My Son October 29, 1948

Gentle little hands Caressing Soft as fairy-down More precious … How I love you, how I love you, oh! My son, my son. Merry big dark eyes Of mischief Bright and laughing eyes Close slowly … Full of sweetness, full of sleeping, oh! My son, my son. Smiling little mouth. Those two lips, Mouth of him I love, So soft … Mouth that laughs and cries and kisses, oh! My son, my son.

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Snow January 19, 1951

The woods bow down In silent servitude Beneath the soft concealing weight Of snow. The skies change blue To gray, and blue again And from their depths send down the cloak Of snow. The days run out Like some swift-running tide; The starting and the end are met In snow.

Autumn in October October 22, 1954

Autumn in October … A time for nature replying to God And earth returning to eternity … A time for knowing And a time for losing. Autumn in October … The leaves drift down like dreams Dead and sere … 23


Dreams forever loved and remembered A quest and a tear. Autumn in October … The gathering – close of fear The releasing of joy … Beauty is death, in autumn, And knowledge is loneliness.

Midnight January 23, 1955

About me through the silent house Where night is pressing deep I hear from distance, closing in, The whirring wings of sleep. The guard of midnight falters watch And past its reaches creep The shadows of an alien world To steal the cape of sleep. Beyond the haven dark of dreams Atop a mountain steep Come ghostly lights which wrap around The pinioned arms of sleep.

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Longing January 25, 1955

A breath, a whisper, a sigh In the darkened bosom of earth … The flash of birds on bright wings, high A flower unfolding its mystery of birth … Tenderness touching, misty-light, On the cheek of love, a kiss withdrawn … Longing heaves the surface of night And speaks to the sky … and is gone.

Bedtime February 21, 1955

The tangled stars roistering through the skies Are like my sons’ sleepiness denying sleep with little lies. The moon bestirs to hush their noise. As I undress two boisterous boys.

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The Question February 9, 1955

Where is the answer that I seek? Is it in the secrets Which only trees may speak Which wind forgets? Is it in the moonlight falling On the ground like snow Or murmuring brooks calling Words I hear but do not know? Where is the answer I would find? In the faces I see unmasked Or in some corner of my mind? Or ‌ what is the question I asked?

Day of Rain March 15, 1955

This is a day for remembering ‌ All the days of sun in the past, The kaleidoscope fragments of pleasure Small moments forgotten too fast. Rain is a giver of quiet and thought As the tempo of life slows pace To bring back lost memories and day-dreams

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From their half-hidden storage place. Think of a time and an age gone by Yet linked with today by the chain Of memory’s generous storing – away And found in the magic of rain.

Precarious Peace April 7, 1955

Precarious peace like a straining bird momentarily poised in flight … A suspended breath held in a vacuum awaiting the return of night … A shaft of sunshine through riven clouds reaching out for sight … This is my peace … like a gentle hand touching not quite … Rivers flow on, days come and go, forgotten; but peace is a moment’s delight.

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And Yet Myself November 19, 1955

The storm raged on, and I … One being, lost Stillborn upon a single page of time … Pushed up against the meshing folds Of consciousness And reached a groping hand To still the storm. I was the snow … soft ceaseless fall And wind and violence … And yet myself, The frantic spirit loosed and tossing On the sudden day Which was my own Yet alien to me.

Linda Jeanne February 3, 1956

A fairy touch of tiny hands on mine … A flash of sun your smile for me …

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A sparkling brook your eyes, deep, dark … A song at dusk your gentle voice … My heart you hold most tenderly In tiny hands, a fairy touch.

Love – Poem February 3, 1956

My little girl, to me You are the stars In night’s black-velvet sky, The golden moon at full Or silver thin In midnight riding high, The sun most bright and warm Unshadowed joy Which touches soft on sleep, The gentle steal of dusk Whose shadows push And tumble through day’s deep … You are the winds at dawn, The green-gowned trees,

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The far-off twilight bird; You are, to me, the sounds That woods will speak Whenever they are heard. You who have blessed my life Brought laughter back And sight and beauty, too … In all the paths ahead Where you will walk There I will walk with you.

To My Father (on his final illness) February 10, 1956

May angels walk with you where we cannot And guide your feet that you shall stumble not … May gentle hands caress, this darkest night, For we are helpless, bound by chains of light … May voices speak to you, soft voices, clear, For all the words we say you do not hear …

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May God’s compassion touch upon your brow And give you peace and rest from torment now. We are so helpless here to give relief And only love can reach beyond our grief. May angels walk with you till night is done And tend you in our stead O dearest one.

Grief February 19, 1956

I walk the long dark path tonight of grief, where man must walk alone … The bitter emptiness and loss of death I’ve taken for my own … There is no light ahead to lead, no hand I knew so well to guide … I walk alone the endless path and sorrow stumbles at my side. Those we have loved are always ours in memories the years have grown …

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But in my grief tonight I walk in blinded pain … alone, alone.

To Maria Augusta Teall Stock my poet grandmother March 25, 1956

The songs you’ve sung I also sing … Where you left off I shall begin With words you gave me from the past … Unfinished songs which came too fast … Your songs, my songs … a sacred trust A thread unbroke, continuous Through years now dead, today the same. Your spirit touched my own with flame.

Biography April 4, 1956

A simple birth … A man unschooled in many things Save those most needed; A life of peace which courage brings To those who walk The self-same path each day, and know

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The path bejeweled With flowers, autumn leaves or snow; A quiet man Delighting in the earth, the wood, The trails he walked, The tall dark pines where oft he stood At his full height And felt the weight of pain and care Slip gently off. So many times I saw him there, Myself a child And following one step behind And stopping, too, With him ‌ some new delight to find. My father, he, Who gave so many loves to me ‌ The love of land And woods and home and family; The love of God Found by his side each Sunday morn; The love of man, All peoples, who are equal born; The love of right, Of courage, honor, song; The thirst to know, To find one spot where I belong. A simple birth,

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A man unschooled, with weary feet And low-bent back … He taught me his own wisdom sweet.

Her Majesty April 20, 1956

Her Majesty is a rose … So pink and clean and sweet … She has a little button nose And tiny hands and feet. Her Majesty wants her bath She would like it right away It’s morning, and it’s bath-time She wants to start her day. So, into the bathtub warm To kick and splash and play Then out she comes, all wet, With sleep all washed away. A towel, big and soft, Is wrapped around her thick; She’s dried and powdered now And dressed … we must be quick. Her majesty wants to eat So, rush to put away The bath things, clean the floor

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Her majesty seems to say: “I’m hungry now, please hurry.” Her smile could change to tears … So, out we go to fetch it, Her majesty gives three cheers; A shout, a squeal, a giggle A charming sight to see … What joy that she is ours to tend … Our rose-bud Majesty.

Little Angel June 14, 1956

Little angel, in a world your own A world I could encompass with my arms … Let me touch you gently in my love Let me shield you from our fears, alarms Let me gaze upon you sleeping Let me smile on you awake Let me love you from my heart’s joy Give full love and your love take. Little angel, God protect you now In babyhood and on through all the years … Larger angels guide you, precious one, Keep you safe, for me, from unknown fears.

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Grow in grace, my darling, and in joy; Hold yourself in strength, in worth, in pride, So know yourself that all may know you, too, And I, adoring, shall be at your side, Little angel, from this small world your own Come swift to me, come straight to me And with your eyes and mine be made aware Of all the riches, beautiful, to see.

My Baby Sleeps December 10, 1956

My baby wept … I held her in my arms against my heart And sang to her … My baby slept. She stirred in sleep And woke with fretful crying, restless woe … God held her close … My baby sleeps.

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Orcelia BirgeWinn in the Milton Congregational Church, Milton, Connecticut.


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