Only singing matters now,With stark birds on every bough.
Carolling for morning, carolling for noon.Stiff tasks done with a tiny tune,And never a noteIn timbre any bigger than the tone of a flute—Little sounds only, coming in your throat,And the big sounds mute.
Thinner, rarer and more shrill,As silence whitens on the hill:Whistling in daylight to keep up nerve,While blue whiteness comes up the curve.
Bravado of sparse breathBlown straight at death;Voices in silences, swooping like birds,Voices and carolling,Warm words.Flung at the sky's stiff stare—Into the brittle air—A laugh like a torch's flare. . . .
Desperate gaiety and games,And pleasantries for comfort like wan flames,
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