White Rooms
Morning
slips
into
white rooms.
It gently
glides a
sun smeared hand
over
hazy figures
undulating,
speaking
silent
words.
Poems on the topic: silence
Poems on the topic “silence” on Poets.by.
The Bed
Hollows map
your body
gone.
My body drinks
your fading
warmth.
Your ghost
is mute.
I smoke.
A touch,
did I feel
a touch
of a wrapping
thigh?
Silence deepens.
I sleep.
Confession
Only because
we are
candles
burning
at both
ends
do I say
this word
love
and fall
silent.
Lines
The sun I worship,
Not for the light, but for the shadows of the trees he draws :
O shadows welcome like an angel's bower,
Where I build Summer-day dreams !
Not for her love, but for the love's memory,
The woman I adore :
Love may die, but not the memory eternally green—
The well where I drink Spring ecstasy.
To a bird's song I listen,
Not for the voice, but for the silence following after the song :
O Silence fresh from the bosom of voice ! —
Melody from the Death-Land whither my face does ever turn!
Hokku 46
Speak not again, Voice!
The silence washes off sins
Come not again, Light!
Hokku 27
The silence-leaves fallen from Life,
Older than dream or pain, —
Are they my passing ghost?
Hokku 25
I, a moth with no sense of the day,
Dare not fly,
Lest the silence be marred.
Cobweb
It joins a dark pine to another tree;
And shining through its bones a ray of sun
Unearthed it like some graceful skeleton,
Or an unfinished frame of faery
As frail as words. Not even thought could be
More carefully, more delicately spun —
As fine a thread as that invisible one
Of speech and silence between you and me.
The spider lurks there blotched and poisonous.
He is the monstrous god who can at will
Belch beauty from a stomachful of spit;
And dreaming of that silver binding us,
Which Love unwinds and weaves, my heart grows still
And cries that Love is lovely — isn't it ?
Trespasser
I am among the careless dead
Who do not rise to see
Why I should hurry through their flowers
Beneath their willow tree,
Nor lift their hands from off their breasts
To beckon me.
But though I run so lightly through
The myrtle's rambling mass,
And though my feet step silently
Above the blowing grass.
And though they do not stir or speak —
They know I pass.
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.
The Stranger
Half-hidden in a graveyard,
In the blackness of a yew,
Where never living creature stirs,
Nor sunbeam pierces through,
Is a tombstone green and crooked,
Its faded legend gone,
And but one rain-worn cherub's head
To sing of the unknown.
There, when the dusk is falling,
Silence broods so deep
It seems that every wind that breathes
Blows from the fields of sleep?
Day breaks in heedless beauty,
Kindling each drop of dew,
But unforsaking shadow dwells
Beneath this lonely yew.
Night Song at Amalfi
I asked the heaven of stars
What I should give my love--
It answered me with silence,
Silence above.
I asked the darkened sea
Down where the fishers go--
It answered me with silence,
Silence below.
Oh, I could give him weeping,
Or I could give him song--
But how can I give silence
My whole life long?
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