Helen Frazee-Bower

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Within the still, white room that gave me birth,
My body bloomed, the counterpart of two
Who bore me; but alone, across the earth,
Miles from that place, the heart they never knew
By wise moon fairies on a far high hill
Was being woven out of threads of mist;
Its fragile beauty was a thing more still
Than any lake the wind has ever kissed.

And I have borne it secretly within,
A shy soft wonder sleeping at my breast;
And such has been dissemblance I could win
That even those who bore me have not guessed,
When misty moonlight blows from tree to tree,
How near they are at last to finding me.

(Text from The Best Poems of 1923)