The Mocking-Bird

I hear a thousand thousand tremors
Of clear water
Falling lacily in the sun.
I hear one, two—seven shivers
Of deep bells
Ringing under the sea.
I hear a chiming of soldiers in bright armor
Riding up a hill—
Oh, far away, far away!
I hear sweet words, silver words,
Musically clashing down
From the tune-locked lips of lovers
Up in Heaven.
I hear . . . . .
Is it you, brown bird?
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