A poet’s everlasting lament.
⁓The Voice before the Void
“Joy of the Morning”
I hear you, little bird,
Shouting a-swing above the broken wall.
Shout louder yet: no song can tell it all.
Sing to my soul in the deep, still wood:
‘Tis wonderful beyond the wildest word:
I’d tell it, too, if I could.
Oft when the white, still dawn
Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart,
I’ve felt it like a glory in my heart–
(The world’s mysterious stir)
But had no throat like yours, my bird,
Nor such a listener.