Set by John Mitchell (1941-) op. 48, no. 2 (1982, arr. 1993)
Text by Robert Frost (1874-1963), from West-Running Brook, 1928.
Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played unheard the tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night.
"Warren," she said, "he has come home to die:
You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time."
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The Beauty of Touch
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