We listen for but almost never hear
The country-colored words we like so well,
The kind of talk that makes our meaning clear.
The language we have learned is too austere
For news or weather; when we sit a spell,
We listen for but almost never hear
In anything we say what fills the ear
As purely as the ringing of a bell:
The kind of talk that makes our meaning clear
And provident, like time, beyond the mere
Expense of breath or change we cannot quell.
We listen for but almost never hear
An accent we can recognize, as near
Plain speech as common sense. Oh, we can tell
The kind of talk that makes our meaning clear,
Colloquial as August, when we’re here—
A rhyme for rustics, like a villanelle.
We listen for but almost never hear
The kind of talk that makes our meaning clear.