Classic Poem

I would I knew some slow soft sound to call you:
Some slow soft syllable that would linger on the lip
As loath to pass, because of its own sweetness.

I cannot shape the sound—tho' I have heard it;
Heard it in the night-wind and the rush of the rain;
Heard it in the dull monotony of the dozing noon;
Heard it among the leaves when Winds were fagged at nightfall!

Kind as the shade, this sound:
Kind as the dull blue shade that blade-like cuts
A kingdom of coolness from the cruel Noon:
Soft as the kiss of the Stream to the drooping Leaf;
Sad as the pale Sun's smile over the Blizzard's bier;
Deep and resonant as distant thunder after a day of heat;
Mystic as the dream of the illimitable Prairie under the August glare;
Mysterious as the blue haze in which the turbid River dwindles to a creek!

I cannot speak the language of the Hills.
I am unskilled to sing the notes of the June Southwind.
The Noon croons not with such a tongue as mine.
Yet—even tho' I be dead, this sound shall call you for me!
In the still blue nights—listen, and you shall hear it!
In the burst of the storm it shall be as a whisper to you!
The Morning shall sing it for you and the Sunset paint its meaning,
Even upon a background of burning gold, and from the palette of the Rainbow!

I would that my tongue could shape this sound my spirit calls you.
It would be as a rose-leaf becoming vocal;
As a honeycomb talking of sweetness!
And it would pass slowly and gloriously as a sunset passes;
Gloriously and lingeringly it would die away,
To be like fragrance remembered.