 | Poems |  |
VIII
Words for my song like sighing of dim seas,
Words with no thought in them,—a piping reed,
An infant's cry, a moan low-uttered,—these
Are all the words I need.
Words with no thought in them,—a piping reed,
An infant's cry, a moan low-uttered,—these
Are all the words I need.
163
Others have song for broad-winged winds that pass,
For stars and sun, for standing men around;
I put my mouth low down into the grass,
And whisper to the ground.
For stars and sun, for standing men around;
I put my mouth low down into the grass,
And whisper to the ground.
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