The summer minstrels all had fared from me
Far southward, since the snows must flock so soon.
And yet the air seemed vibrant with the croon
Of unseen birds and words of May-tide glee;
The very silence was a melody
Sown thick with memoried cadences of June.
Shall we not hold that when our little day
Is done, and we are of men no more,
We still live on in some such subtle way,
To make some silence vocal by some shore