by Thomas Whittemore, 1840
The worship I offer is holding this pet, Beholding that flower, And dancing Your music in lonely lost hour. The worship I offer is standing alone And not taking comfort That others might own - From limited gods who don’t have a way Of saving all things That have stories to say. The worship I offer at end of my life May die with me silent In empty dark night. But the worship I offer Is so much a part Of the cloth of my soul, the width of my heart. June
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