Where is he?
The lone-traveller,
The poet I never met.
Who left me wild flowers
Bound in sweet grass.
He came in the night
And left at dawn.
He walked in the early mist
Through the wooded slopes,
And valleys of his mind.
I never saw him.
He never saw me,
But he left me a message
Of wild flowers
More touching and remote
Than any made with words.
(August 1977)
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