THE VOICE OF A BIRD
"He shall rise up at the voice of a bird."—ECCLESIASTES
Who then is "he"?
Dante, Keats, Shakespeare, Milton, Shelley; all
Rose in their greatness at the shrill decree,
The little rousing inarticulate call.
For they stood up
At the bird-voice, of lark, of nightingale,
Drank poems from that throat as from a cup.
Over the great world's notes did these prevail.
And not alone
The signal poets woke. In listening man,
Woman, and child a poet stirs unknown,
Throughout the Mays of birds since Mays began.
He rose, he heard—
Our father, our St. Peter, in his tears—
The crowing, twice, of the prophetic bird,
The saddest cock-crow of our human years.
THE QUESTION
IL POETA MI DISSE, "CHE PENSI?"
Virgil stayed Dante with a wayside word;
But long, and how, and loud and urgently
The poets of my passion have I heard
Summoning me.
It is their closest whisper and their call.
Their greatness to this lowliness hath spoken,
Their voices rest upon that interval,
Their sign, their token.