And in cool hiding love can lie.
There all hurt things can come to rest,
Where wounds are salved and sins confessed.
The inner chamber dark and hidden
To all clear seeing eyes forbidden,
A tomb concealing in its fear,
Worse than the dead, the empty beir.
The hunter waits and leashed his hound,
The silent waiting for a sound.
My innermost identity
Is that which I most fear to see.
~Frances Crawford
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Email: starbuck321@hotmail.com
