Only singing matters now,
With stark birds on every bough.
With stark birds on every bough.
Carolling for morning, carolling for noon.
Stiff tasks done with a tiny tune,
And never a note
In timbre any bigger than the tone of a flute—
Little sounds only, coming in your throat,
And the big sounds mute.
Stiff tasks done with a tiny tune,
And never a note
In 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.
As silence whitens on the hill:
Whistling in daylight to keep up nerve,
While blue whiteness comes up the curve.
Bravado of sparse breath
Blown 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. . . .
Blown 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,
And pleasantries for comfort like wan flames,
24
