Have you ever held your hand still
Just above a river’s passing water
Liquid rushing by reaching for your skin
Jumping up; eager to commune with you
Beckoning you to dip a finger in

I am a shell. From me you shall not hear
The splendid tramplings of insistent drums,
The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes,
Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear.
Yet, if you hold me close against the ear,
A dim, far whisper rises clamorously,
The thunderous beat and passion of the sea,
The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.

Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings,
Making even Love in music audible,
And earth one glory. I am but a shell
That moves, not of itself, and moving sings;
Leaving a fragrance, faint as wine new-shed,
A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.

What must inspire the vagaries of the wind;
Such a variable vocal cord must it wear-
To mimic the voices of so many beings,
And still beneath doors, around corners it bends:
But seems less like a fast flowing column of air,
So that each second, we expect to be seeing
The creature that to anguish it’s voice has lent.
As if the hearts grief has been at once laid bare,
And all the pent- up melancholy given wing.
Ceaseless lamentations rise up and are sent
To the same lone spot where flings curse or prayer.
After hours spent howling, it may begin to sing-
Who can say sorry when at last it has went.
Peace reigns when it abides in its lair.
A stirred- up breeze few good things brings-
And what makes moan when there is no pain?