 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
47
SILENCE.
Then give me Silence; for my spirit is rare,Of delicate edge and tender: when I think,
I rear aloft a mental fabric fair;
But soon as words come hurtling on the air,
Down to this dust my ruin'd fancies sink:
Look you! on yonder Alp's precipitous brink
An avalanche is tottering;—one breath
Loosens an icy chain;—it falls,—it falls,
Filling the buried glens and glades with death!
Or, as when on the mountain's granite walls
The hunter spies a chamois,—hush! be calm,
A word will scare it,—even so my Mind
Creative, energizing, seeks the balm
Of Quiet: Solitude and Peace combined.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |