Classic Poem

Of the birds which in wing-voice raise speech
To an unloving gossip whose shrillness
Seems true of us (since so our conscience
Whistles when we forget we can speak,
Confess the self-hating shudder and spite
Near to our kindness in word-hollowed rooms) —
None knows a word to say.

Of the birds, of all shrewd flying converse,
Of all scraping and scolding in grasses, on branches,
All opinion and pity like grave-chatter round us
Whose lives have grown still with the thought
There are yet to be said the first greetings,
We are not yet made known nor perfected
In spoken possession of earth-fate —

Of the cries and the comments of beak-minds,
Of the wings which by impulse of wind-sense
Make demur at the distance of blindness,
Of the wind that refuses consent
In tongueless upbraiding of sight,
And the thunder whose noise is its knowledge —
Not a phrase to the verbal ear comes.

Of all roaring and bleating we nurture
In the animal lap of locution,
And all waters which tumble, rocks tremble,
Of the leaves with their verge-of-speech seeming,
Of the flowers like anciently breathed
Protestations grown dumb-habitual —
None speaks but who speaks.

Of clock-accents and wheels unremitting,
Determined prolix unabatement,
The world-fame to ourselves that we spread,
Dinning our pride with rattle of pride —
Of all notes in commemorative veil
Interlaced, opaque musics, live shroud —
Not a letter of speech sounds.

We have need of conversing; and talk.
But of talking the measure is small
Of truth to the word-heirs bequeathed.
We inherit a poverty — language —
By which to declare: this the fortune
Reserved, drossless coin of ourselves.
But of all the world, few so inherit.

Of all the world, few inherit themselves,
Few have waited, succeeded their noising,
Not been lost among stridulous turns
Of time-page, afar from silence's path.
Who approach now, to speak, and of all the world?
And what's said so late, close between them?
The words are readable in their clear faces.