SILENCE and Solitude may hint (Whose home is in you piny wood) What I, though tableted, could never tell -- The din which here befell, And striving of the multitude. The iron cones and spheres of death Set round me in their rust, -- These, too, if just, Shall speak with more than animated breath. Thou who beholdest, if thy thought, Not narrowed down to personal cheer, Take in the import of the quiet here -- The after-quiet -- the calm full fraught; Thou too wilt silent stand, -- Silent as I, and lonesome as the land. |