Language

I made new speech for you, a secret tongue, Dearest and best of all in book or scroll — To hear it spoken was to hear it sung, I copied all of it upon my soul.

There were those leafy letters, wreathed like vines, Such trellises of words as Sappho spoke — Heavy as silver flagons of old wines Some Latin phrases carved by stately folk.

I could not find a sound for leavetakings Slower, more sorrowful than Spanish is. And the French names with flower-dusty wings Flew in and out among the sentences.

So with my heart a voice made musical, I went to you and did not speak at all.