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Loy E. Golladay 125 Silent Homage (For an Interpreter) The moving lips speak voicelessly—but hark: The winged words fly from your fluttering hands; And each who dwells in silence, understands How dawn, the rosy-fingered, burns the dark From shadow worlds wherein the teeming brain Lay, like a captive, in a dungeon cell; Your magic bursts the iron citadel, And breaks the lock, and brings the light again. Dear friend, how empty, vain and commonplace Must seem this gratitude we bring to you; Yet now we render homage, as your due, Remembering your patience, love and grace— With twining fingers as you blithely go, Daily, to fell our Walls of Jericho. ...

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