Sound Track

It must be that the listening silence holds
Some cherished part of everything it hears,
To bear forever in its gracious folds
A medley of the gone, articulate years.
Here, in the frozen stillness of this time,
We stop and listen . . . all but turn the head . . .
To hear a bird of summer . . . a spent rhyme:
The song is near . . . the word is all but said.
Long since it was that Dido cried aloud,
Seeing the white wake of departing ships;
Yet, sometimes, through our silences, will crowd Sweet, painful words that nearly sound from lips Gone back to lipless dust this many a year,
Stilled of the bitter cry we almost hear.