THE INDIAN BASKET WEAVER by CAREY YATES BUSBY

The voice of my singing is dumb.
My passion for beauty is numb.
Not solely by singing and rhyme
Do rhythms of melody come.

I weave all my songs in disguise,
Of rivers and mountains and skies,
Of deserts and valleys and hills
Of all things wherein beauty lies;

The graceful arcades of a shell,
The plumage of birds in the dell,
The crest of a bounding deer,
The wild bee's honeyfilled cell.

I see in the butterfly's wing
A song for a singer to sing.
In rhythms of symbol and color
Do songs from my silent heart spring.

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