The cedars hold a secret in their heads While whispering together; poplar-tops Meet for a conference, but only sigh; The birches are not tongueless nor the oaks. In needless haste the winds go by and leave Less than a hint of what their moods might tell. The little rivers babble to the hills Less than they know; in language strange to us Each water-drop tinkles a mystery. The birds cry out all day, but in their glee Are cautious not to break forbidden news. The ocean breezes murmur many things, But not the one sure word; for taciturnity, A spider's chronicle of lazy-day In some untravelled corner tells us less. The shifting glories of a sunset hour Almost reveal the secret ere they fade. A shrill outcry of crickets storms the dark With untranslated syllables; and lo! Night after night a crowded dome of sparks Spells the old hieroglyph across the sky. When a child laughs some helpless little word Totters with heavy meaning, and is lost. The fixed I Am of personality Breathes a fine whisper, gone ere fully caught. Deep is the after-stillness when a soul Goes on its way with Death. No word comes back. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RING AND THE CASTLE by AMY LOWELL THE RUSSIAN ARMY GOES INTO BAKU by ALICIA SUSKIN OSTRIKER HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 5 by EZRA POUND THE RETIREMENT; TO MR. IZAAK WALTON by CHARLES COTTON A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 28. THE WELSH MARCHES by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL, FR. ROSALIND [ROSALYNDE] by THOMAS LODGE REQUIEM FOR ONE SLAIN IN BATTLE by GEORGE LUNT |