Sharpened to a cutting edge on the whetstone Of pain; held rigid in my chair facing That right-angled enclosure I had come to hate During an interminable night -- at once -- Outside, I heard a cry. It echoed yet belied What I had felt. For awhile -- silence; Then a pouring out of rounded sound! No lark heard through the cadence of English song Sent molten notes poignantly through clouds more black. Oh, bird, I cannot even give you name, Yet of rare kind you cannot be, for we are Within our February night. Much thanks; Your song came straight, "Nest, if need, in pumiced snow: Nor cavil with loathed months in rack-ridden years." |