Bough of Babylon
How shall I sing whose harp-strings rot upon
The old habitual bough of Babylon —
The exile's branch where no tears can appease
The inarticulate and iron trees?
Malignant beauty locked in the cold bough
Never so cold as now.
How shall I sing in a strange land, alone
With time like water dribbling over stone,
And in my heart a small recurrent sound
Like water eating stubborn edges round?
To some grief brings a trumpet's throat, to some —
" O my son Absalom!
O Absalom my son! " O harp as dead!
O flutes for ever choking in my head!
Where is that laughter? Shall I hear again
The dark sonorous music of that brain? . . . .
The bough of Babylon is dripping cold;
This heart is old.
The old habitual bough of Babylon —
The exile's branch where no tears can appease
The inarticulate and iron trees?
Malignant beauty locked in the cold bough
Never so cold as now.
How shall I sing in a strange land, alone
With time like water dribbling over stone,
And in my heart a small recurrent sound
Like water eating stubborn edges round?
To some grief brings a trumpet's throat, to some —
" O my son Absalom!
O Absalom my son! " O harp as dead!
O flutes for ever choking in my head!
Where is that laughter? Shall I hear again
The dark sonorous music of that brain? . . . .
The bough of Babylon is dripping cold;
This heart is old.
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