The World's Voice

If I listen shall I hear Sounds that seem to hover near? Speech of ship calling to ship Through dark tides that twist and grip, Dash of spray on a splintered coast, The whisper-flutter of a host Of sun-coloured butterflies Wheeling under marbled skies; The jabber of a little wind Where the meadows' grass is thinned — Or where trees forget their prides To sway in unison like tides; All the city's formal din; All the hush where big streets thin To little crooked lanes and lose Themselves as the green distance blues Into space Oh, everything That can either sound or sing!

To-day my four grey walls are strung So thin, each echo has a tongue; The world has raised its voice to-day That I may hear what it has to say.

I listen . . . What I hear Is only the longing of an ear Too much concerned with the cry of space, And with listening in a quiet place.