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.
