Poetry Archives

Music is in all growing things;
And underneath the silky wings
  Of smallest insects there is stirred
  A pulse of air that must be heard.
Earth’s silence lives, and throbs, and sings.

If poet from the vibrant strings
Of his poor heart a measure flings,
  Laugh not, that he no trumpet blows:
  It may be that Heaven hears and knows
His language of low listenings.