The Message

By Nora May French

So might it brush my cheek with errant wings,
    So might it speak with thrilling touch and light
Of answering eyes, of dim, unuttered things—"
    A moth from hidden gardens of the night.
 
So, in a land of hills, where twilight lay,
    Might come a sudden bird-call to the ear,
Across the canyons, faint and far away.  .  .
  O Heart, how sweet  .  .  .  half heard and wholly
     dear.

Footnote reads: "These lines were in response to a long telegram dispatched at night by a distant friend."