I shall be telling this with a sigh.
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
deep hearted, pure, with the scent of dew,
still wet,
and the rough winds shake the darling buds,
with all her matter of fact about the storm
that’s sweetly played in tune.
But the silence sounds no worse than cheers;
A wild crowd of invisible pleasures.
The faces and darkness separate,
over and over,
covering everything,
blacker than a hundred midnights;
hearts as blithe as birds in a tree;
a broken bird who cannot fly;
unvoiced clamor ******* the air,
intertwining with grief like sea and river.