But then there comes that moment
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the
Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then
And sighing, sighing double
Of double basses, content to playA droning chord for the little throats—The little throats that sing and
Up into the light with lovely
And a kind of magical, sweet
To hear and know themselves for these—For these little voices: the bee, the
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that insect makes.
