I know a green grass path that leaves the field,
And like a running river, winds along Into a leafy wood where is no throng Of birds at noon-day, and no soft throats yield Their music to the moon.
The place is sealed,
An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song,
And all the unravished silences belong To some sweet singer lost or unrevealed.
So is my soul become a silent place.
Oh, may I wake from this uneasy night To find a voice of music manifold.
Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,
Or Love that swoons on sleep, or else delight That is as wide-eyed as a marigold.
