when all the rooms are dim, when all the crowds have thinned, when all the thoughts that brimmed have been by shadows pinned against pride’s swollen rim,
when a quiet song is playing from a radio relaying static voices always saying that never were they portraying a world of only hurraying,
amid soft singing and late voices are we not held against our choices? yet in this the poet rejoices:
his soul’s words are yet unspoken; no two works share the same tokens through history’s line unbroken.