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Take My Hand, Fair Daughter of Night

by Thomas Buttesthorn

Take my hand, fair daughter of night,
For the dawning is nearly here.
Let us lie down, dressed in moonlight,
By the stream that only runs clear.
Not all things grow by the light of the day,
For love oft grows best in the dark.
And lovers then lie in soft disarray,
When to rhythms of love they give hark.
The velvet of night lies soft as a cloak,
The lovers its jewelled fingers caress;
And covering the eyes of profane folk,
The goddess of night stoops to bless.

 



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