Would make a sound as thin and sweet
As trees in country lanes.
And people standing in their shade
Out of a shower, undoubtedly
Would hear such music as is made
Upon a country tree.
Oh, little leaves that are so dumb
Against the shrieking city air,
I watch you when the wind has come,—
I know what sound is there.
Similar Posts
Let you not say of me when I am old,
Forgetting who I am, and how the sandsOf such a life as mine run red and goldEven to the ultimate sifting dust, ‘Behold,Here walketh passionless age!’—for there expandsA curious superstition in these lands,And by its leave some weightless tales are told.In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;I am the booth where Folly holds…
Just a rainy day or two
That was all I had of you—Saving half an hour.Marred by greeting passing groupsIn a cinder walk,Near some naked blackberry hoopsDim with purple chalk.I remember three or fourThings you said in spite,And an ugly coat you wore,Plaided black and white.Just a rainy day or twoAnd a bitter word.Why do I remember youAs a singing bird?
I shall go back again to the bleak shore
In such a way that the extremest bandOf brittle seaweed shall escape my doorBut by a yard or two; and nevermoreShall I return to take you by the hand.I shall be gone to what I understand,And happier than I ever was before.The love that stood a moment in your eyes,The words that lay a moment…
Into the golden vessel of great song
Let other lovers lie, in love and rest;Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongueOf all the world: the churning blood, the longShuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressedSharply together upon the escaping guest,The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.Longing alone is singer to the lute;Let still on nettles in the open sighThe minstrel, that in…
Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
That I am weary of words and people,Sick of the city, wanting the sea;Wanting the sticky, salty sweetnessOf the strong wind and shattered spray;Wanting the loud sound and the soft soundOf the big surf that breaks all day.Always before about my dooryard,Marking the reach of the winter sea,Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,Straggled the purple…
I drank at every vine.
I came upon no wineSo wonderful as thirst.I gnawed at every root.I ate of every plant.I came upon no fruitSo wonderful as want.Feed the grape and beanTo the vintner and monger:I will lie down leanWith my thirst and my hunger.