Windle-Straws: VIII

Words for my song like sighing of dim seas,
Words with no thought in them,--a piping reed,
An infant’s cry, a moan low-uttered,--these
Are all the words I need.

Others have song for broad-winged winds that pass,
For stars and sun, for standing men around;
I put my mouth low down into the grass,
And whisper to the ground.