Lola Ridge imagines the natural world as carrying a quiet, almost hidden music—an “under-song” that survives in bushes, leaves, and empty air. The speaker senses whispers of old ballads, faint odors, and the first notes of long-faded springs, as if the landscape remembers things that are no longer visible. She wonders whether this sound rises from “the graves / Of all things fair,” carried by winds and birds as wordless sonatas. The feeling is less celebratory than haunted and tender: the speaker is listening for something ancient, delicate, and slightly sorrowful. By the end, the music becomes silvery, like light from dead stars still reaching through darkness. The mood is hushed, mysterious, and elegiac—an invitation to pay attention to the faint, lingering beauty that hums beneath ordinary perception, just past the edge of hearing.
Under-Song — Summary
There is music in the strong Deep-throated bush, Whisperings of song Heard in the leaves' hush-- Ballads of the trees In tongues unknown-- A reminiscent tone On minor keys...
Boughs swaying to and fro Though no winds pass... Faint odors in the grass Where no flowers grow, And flutterings of wings And faint first notes, Once babbled on the boughs Of faded springs.
Is it music from the graves Of all things fair Trembling on the staves Of spacious air-- Fluted by the winds Songs with no words-- Sonatas from the throats Of master birds?
One peering through the husk Of darkness thrown May hear it in the dusk-- That ancient tone, Silvery as the light Of long dead stars Yet falling through the night In trembling bars.