The Conspiracy

Chapter XXX: A Poem

'Tis the human touch

in this world that counts,
The touch of your hand and mine,
Which means far more
to the fainting heart
Than shelter and bread and wine.
For shelter is gone
when the night is o'er,
And bread lasts only a day.
But the touch of the hand
And the sound of the voice
Sing on in the soul always."

"The Human Touch"
by Spence Michael Free


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