Though the air is full of singing
my head is loud with the labor of words.
Though the season is rich with fruit,
my tongue hungers for the sweet of speech.
Though the beech is golden I cannot stand beside it mute, but must say "It is golden," while the leaves stir and fall with a sound that is not a name.
It is in the silence that my hope is, and my aim.
A song whose lines I cannot make or sing sounds men's silence like a root.
Let me say and not mourn: the world lives in the death of speech and sings there.
my head is loud with the labor of words.
Though the season is rich with fruit,
my tongue hungers for the sweet of speech.
Though the beech is golden I cannot stand beside it mute, but must say "It is golden," while the leaves stir and fall with a sound that is not a name.
It is in the silence that my hope is, and my aim.
A song whose lines I cannot make or sing sounds men's silence like a root.
Let me say and not mourn: the world lives in the death of speech and sings there.
--Wendell Berry
2 comments:
Thanks for the Berry poems, I like. Also thanks for the inspirational message lastnight at DSF.
Trying to live the Spirit life
Jer
Thanks for the kind words...we are trying to live it together and that's what makes it half-possible.
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