Damariscotta II.

No poem is as beautiful as that
Which wordless runs through corridors of rock
And moss, or hangs in bowers of wooded pine,
Up where the redbreast climbs to roost. No song
Is sung with such inspired harmony
As by the foam-lipped lapping waves below
The silt sand at the lake-edge, or by leaves
High, rustling in the sun-hot breeze of day,
Those viewless places of the tallest tree
No eye can ever see; There! music plays
Diurnal and unheard --- a chorus song
Of crickets and cicadas blossoming
Beneath some secret canopy of green.
I pray my song may always take from these
Its substance and its life, to live and die
Like earthen forms of dirt and leaf, or sounds
Of wind and crickets in the summer trees,
And like these, fall to silence once again.