I know, Supernal Woman, Thou dost seek
No song of man, no worship and no praise;
But Thou wouldst have dead lips begin to speak,
And dead feet rise to walk immortal ways.
Yet listen, Mighty Mother, to the child
Who has no voice but song to tell his grief—
Nothing but tears and broken numbers wild,
Nothing but woodland music for relief.
His song is but a little broken cry,
Less than the whisper of a river reed;
Yet thou canst hear in it the souls that die—
Feel in its pain the vastness of our need.
I would not break the mouth of song to tell
My life's long passion and my heart's long grief,
But Thou canst hear the ocean in one shell,
And see the whole world's winter in one leaf.
So here I stand at the world's weary feet,
And cry the sorrow of the world's dumb years:
I cry because I hear the world's heart beat,
Weary of hope and broken through by tears.
105
