OUR SPEECH
111
The wind that came from a mountain-top,
(But swept a garden of roses thro'),
Some pine-boughs sighing in gyves of mist,
Some laugh of leaves on a wash of blue,
The golden sand in a dashing wave,
The tip of a gannet's wing of snow:
The fluted lip of a sea-tost shell
That lisps its tale of the green below,
Let these spell softly my answer, hold
My soul's wild hymn to your music bars,
The sun and wind are our alphabet,
God gave us words in His silver stars!
(But swept a garden of roses thro'),
Some pine-boughs sighing in gyves of mist,
Some laugh of leaves on a wash of blue,
The golden sand in a dashing wave,
The tip of a gannet's wing of snow:
The fluted lip of a sea-tost shell
That lisps its tale of the green below,
Let these spell softly my answer, hold
My soul's wild hymn to your music bars,
The sun and wind are our alphabet,
God gave us words in His silver stars!
