Feet, I am weary of your beat;
All day, all year, all life you pass
Below me on the street,
Driven upon my hearing as the grass
Before wild rain and sleet.
You snatch up in your tidal tone
The reaching rhythms of my peace
And substitute your drone.
Until intimidated dreams release
The visions they have known.
Feet, I am weary of your stave —
The little course your sounds pursue —
Weary that I must waive
My reaches in subservience to you,
Who seek only a grave.
Since I lost you I am silence-haunted,
Sounds wave their little wings
A moment, then in weariness settle
On the flood that soundless swings.
Whether the people in the street
Like pattering ripples go by,
Or whether the theatre sighs and sighs
With a loud, hoarse sigh:
Or the wind shakes a ravel of light
Over the dead-black river,
Or night's last echoing
Makes the daybreak shiver:
I feel the silence waiting
To take them all up again
In its vast completeness, enfolding
The sound of men.