The World's Voice

If I listen shall I hear
Sounds that seem to hover near?
Speech of ship calling to ship
Through dark tides that twist and grip,
Dash of spray on a splintered coast,
The whisper-flutter of a host
Of sun-coloured butterflies
Wheeling under marbled skies;
The jabber of a little wind
Where the meadows' grass is thinned —
Or where trees forget their prides
To sway in unison like tides;
All the city's formal din;
All the hush where big streets thin
To little crooked lanes and lose
Themselves as the green distance blues
Into space . . . Oh, everything
That can either sound or sing!

To-day my four grey walls are strung
So thin, each echo has a tongue;
The world has raised its voice to-day
That I may hear what it has to say.

I listen . . .
What I hear
Is only the longing of an ear
Too much concerned with the cry of space,
And with listening in a quiet place.