THE WORLD'S VOICE
If I listen shall I hear
Sounds that seem to hover near?
Speech of ship calling to ship
Through dark tides that twist and grip,
Dash of spray on a splintered coast,
The whisper-flutter of a host
Of sun-coloured butterflies
Wheeling under marbled skies;
The jabber of a little wind
Where the meadows grass is thinned—
Or where trees forget their prides
To sway in unison like tides;
All the city's formal din;
All the hush where big streets thin
To little crooked lanes and lose
Themselves as the green distance blues
Into space—— Oh, everything
That can either sound or sing!
Sounds that seem to hover near?
Speech of ship calling to ship
Through dark tides that twist and grip,
Dash of spray on a splintered coast,
The whisper-flutter of a host
Of sun-coloured butterflies
Wheeling under marbled skies;
The jabber of a little wind
Where the meadows grass is thinned—
Or where trees forget their prides
To sway in unison like tides;
All the city's formal din;
All the hush where big streets thin
To little crooked lanes and lose
Themselves as the green distance blues
Into space—— Oh, everything
That can either sound or sing!
To-day my four grey walls are strung
So thin, each echo has a tongue;
The world has raised its voice to-day
That I may hear what it has to say.
So thin, each echo has a tongue;
The world has raised its voice to-day
That I may hear what it has to say.
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