Under-song

Lola Ridge

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.

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