I think that man hath made no beauteous thing
More lovely than a glorious melody
That soars aloft in splendor, full and free,
And graceful as a swallow on the wing!
A melody that seems to move, and sing,
And quiver, in its radiant ecstasy,
That bends and rises like a slender tree
Which sways before the gentle winds of Spring!

Ah, men will ever love thee, holy art!
For thou, of all the blessings God hath given,
Canst best revive and cheer the wounded heart
And nearest bring the weary soul to Heaven!
Of all God’s precious gifts, it seems to me,
The choicest is the gift of melody.

When first you sang a song to me
With laughter shining from your eyes, 
You trolled your music liltingly
With cadences of glad surprise. 

In after years I heard you croon
In measures delicately slow 
Of trees turned silver by the moon
And nocturnes sprites and lovers know. 

And now I cannot hear you sing, 
But love still holds your melody
For silence is a sounding thing
To one who listens hungrily. 

I heard an elf go whistling by,
A whistle sleek as moonlit grass,
That drew me like a silver string
To where the dusty, pale moths fly,
And make a magic as they pass;
And there I heard a cricket sing.

His singing echoed through and through
The dark under a windy tree
Where glinted little insects’ wings.
His singing split the sky in two.
The halves fell either side of me,
And I stood straight, bright with moon-rings.

What is the song the stars sing?
    (And a million songs are as song of one.)
This is the song the stars sing:
    Sweeter song’s none.

One to set, and many to sing,
    (And a million songs are as song of one),
One to stand, and many to cling,
The many things, and the one Thing,
    The one that runs not, the many that run.

The ever new weaveth the ever old
    (And a million songs are as song of one)
Ever telling the never told;
The silver saith, and the said is gold,
    And done ever the never done.

The chase that’s chased is the Lord o’ the chase
(And a million songs are as song of one),
And the pursued cries on the race;
    And the hounds in leash are the hounds that run.

Hidden stars by the shown stars’ sheen;
    (And a million suns are but as one);
Colours unseen by the colours seen,
And sounds unheard heard sounds between,
    And a night is in the light of the sun.

An ambuscade of lights in night,
    (And a million secrets are but as one),
And a night is dark in the sun’s light,
    And a world in the world man looks upon.

Hidden stars by the shown stars’ wings,
    (And a million cycles are but as one),
And a world with unapparent strings
Knits the stimulant world of things;
    Behold, and vision thereof is none.

The world above in the world below,
    (And a million worlds are but as one),
And the One in all; as the sun’s strength so
Strives in all strength, glows in all glow
    Of the earth that wits not, and man thereon.

Braced in its own fourfold embrace
    (And a million strengths are as strength of one),
And round it all God’s arms of grace,
The world, so as the Vision says,
    Doth with great lightning-tramples run.

And thunder bruiteth into thunder,
    (And a million sounds are as sound of one),
From stellate peak to peak is tossed a voice of wonder,
And the height stoops down to the depths thereunder,
    And sun leans forth to his brother sun.

And the more ample years unfold
    (With a million songs as song of one),
A little new of the ever old,
A little told of the never told,
    Added act of the never done.

Loud the descant, and low the theme,
    (A million songs are as song of one)
And the dream of the world is dream in dream,
But the one Is is, or nought could seem;
    And the song runs round to the song begun.

This is the song the stars sing,
    (Tonèd all in time);
Tintinnabulous, tuned to ring
A multitudinous-single thing,
    (Rung all in rhyme).

Sometimes I just sit like this at the window and watch
the darkness come. If I’m smart, I’ll put on Bach.

I’m thinking now of how far it always seems there is to go.
Maybe it is too easy that I speak so often

of late last light on a December day,
of that stubborn grass that somehow still remains green

behind the broken chain link fence on the corner.
But the need is so great for the way light looks

as it takes its leave of us. We say
what we can to each other of these things,

we who are such thieves, stealing first
one breath and then the next. Bach, keep going

just this slowly, show me the way to believe
that what matters in this world has already happened

and will go on happening forever.
The way light falls on the last

of the stricken leaves of the copper beech
at the end of the block is something to behold.

Before man came to blow it right
    The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
    In any rough place where it caught.

Man came to tell it what was wrong:
    It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard—the aim was song.
    And listen—how it ought to go!

He took a little in his mouth,
    And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
    And then by measure blew it forth.

By measure. It was word and note,
    The wind the wind had meant to be—
A little through the lips and throat.
    The aim was song—the wind could see.

Music lives inside my legs.
It’s coming out when I talk.

I’m going to send my valentines
to people you don’t even know.

Oatmeal cookies make my throat gallop.

Grown-ups keep their feet on the ground
when they swing. I hate that.

Look at those 2 o’s with a smash in the middle––
that spells good-bye.

Don’t ever say “purpose” again,
let’s throw the word out.

Don’t talk big to me.
I’m carrying my box of faces.
If I want to change faces I will.

Yesterday faded
But tomorrow’s in BOLDFACE.

When I grow up my old names
will live in the house
where we live now.
I’ll come and visit them.

Only one of my eyes is tired.
The other eye and my body aren’t.

Is it true all metal was liquid first?
Does that mean if we bought our car earlier
they could have served it
in a cup?

There’s a stopper in my arm
that’s not going to let me grow any bigger.
I’ll be like this always, small.

And I will be deep water too.
Wait. Just wait. How deep is the river?
Would it cover the tallest man with his hands in the air?

Your head is a souvenir.

When you were in New York I could see you
in real life walking in my mind.

I’ll invite a bee to live in your shoe.
What if you found your shoe
full of honey?

What if the clock said 6:92
instead of 6:30? Would you be scared?

My tongue is the car wash
for the spoon.

Can noodles swim?

My toes are dictionaries.
Do you need any words?

From now on I’ll only drink white milk on January 26.

What does minus mean?
I never want to minus you.

Just think––no one has ever seen
inside this peanut before!

It is hard being a person.

I do and don’t love you––
isn’t that happiness?

A stranger in a stranger land,
    Too calm to weep, too sad to smile,
I take my harp of broken strings,
    A weary moment to beguile;
And tho no hope its promise brings,
    And present joy is not for me,
Still o’er that harp I love to bend,
    And feel its broken melody
With all my shattered feelings blend.

I love to hear its funeral voice
    Proclaim how sad my lot, how lone;
And when, my spirit wilder grows,
    To list its deeper, darker tone.
And when my soul more madly glows
    Above the wrecks that round it lie,
It fills me with a strange delight,
    Past mortal bearing, proud and high,
To feel its music swell to might.

When beats my heart in doubt and awe,
    And Reason pales upon her throne,
Ah, then, when no kind voice can cheer
    The lot too desolate, too lone,
Its tones come sweet upon my ear,
    As twilight o’er some landscape fair:
As light upon the wings of night
    (The meteor flashes in the air,
The rising stars) its tones are bright.

And now by Sacramento’s stream,
    What mem’ries sweet its music brings—
The vows of love, its smiles and tears,
    Hang o’er this harp of broken strings.
It speaks, and midst her blushing fears
    The beauteous one before me stands!
Pure spirit in her downcast eyes,
    And like twin doves her folded hands!

It breathes again—and at my side
    She kneels, with grace divinely rare—
Then showering kisses on my lips,
    She hides our busses with her hair;
Then trembling with delight, she flings
    Her beauteous self into my arms,
As if o’erpowered, she sought for wings
    To hide her from her conscious charms!

It breathes once more, and bowed in grief,
    The bloom has left her cheek forever,
While, like my broken harp-strings now,
    Behold her form with feeling quiver!
She turns her face o’errun with tears,
    To him that silent bends above her,
And, by the sweets of other years,
    Entreats him still, oh, still to love her!

He loves her still—but darkness falls
    Upon his ruined fortunes now,
And ’t is his exile doom to flee.
    The dews, like death, are on his brow,
And cold the pang about his heart
    Oh, cease—to die is agony:
’T is more than death when loved ones part!

Well may this harp of broken strings
    Seem sweet to me by this lonely shore.
When like a spirit it breaks forth,
    And speaks of beauty evermore!
When like a spirit it evokes
    The buried joys of early youth,
And clothes the shrines of early love,
    With all the radiant light of truth!

next to her bed her instrument sleeps
covered for the night like a bird in a cage
night passes . . . . . . the light returns
she pulls the cover away
dust motes dance in the air
she tunes her loom
strums the white parallel lines
with a flick of her wrist
each string must vibrate
layers of notes grow upward
tamp tamp tamp tamp
she listens for the right pitch
inserts the percussion fork into
the parallel lines that lead upward
she pulls down mountains, stars, lightning, storm patterns
tamp tamp tamp tamp
she is mythic soloist, storyteller, mathematician
her concert transforms us
we soften like lambskin

Music, music with throb and swing, 
   Of a plaintive note, and long; 
’Tis a note no human throat could sing, 
No harp with its dulcet golden string,—
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring, 
   Is sweet as the robin’s song. 

He sings for the love of the season
   When the days grow warm and long, 
For the beautiful God-sent reason
   That his breast was born for song. 

Calling, calling so fresh and clear, 
   Through the song-sweet days of May; 
Warbling there, and whistling here, 
He swells his voice on the drinking ear, 
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
   ’Till his music drowns the day. 

He sings for love of the season
   When the days grow warm and long, 
For the beautiful God-sent reason
   That his breast was born for song. 

                                  I

Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping
    With shadowy garments, the wilderness through;
All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping,
    So echo the anthems we warbled to you;
               While we swing, swing,
               And your branches sing,
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

                                  II

Sing to us, cedars; the night-wind is sighing,
    Is wooing, is pleading, to hear you reply;
And here in your arms we are restfully lying,
    And longing to dream to your soft lullaby;
               While we swing, swing,
               And your branches sing.
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

                                  III

Sing to us, cedars; your voice is so lowly,
    Your breathing so fragrant, your branches so strong;
Our little nest-cradles are swaying so slowly,
    While zephyrs are breathing their slumberous song.
               And we swing, swing,
               While your branches sing,
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

Whyfore must minstrels unattended sing
And utter sounds by no one understood?
The shy doves coo their music to the wood
And wild—as soon responsive echoes sing:
Perfuméd flowers impetuously will fling
Such exhalations like to harmony;
The moaning waves, the blood-red clouds on high,
In our soul’s sympathy are wantoning;
But these the poets offer from their art,
Are whispers wafted from some alien strain.
Perhaps they rise as secrets of the heart,
That, surging, sink, and, sinking, surge again,
Perhaps the accents geniuses impart,
Aroused by godly impulse, heard in vain.

Staccato! Staccato!
Leggier agitato!
    In and out does the melody twist—
Unique proposition
Is this composition.
    (Alas! for the player who hasn’t the wrist!)
Now in the dominant
Theme ringing prominent,
    Bass still repeating its one monotone,
Double notes crying,
Up keyboard go flying,
    The change to the minor comes in like a groan.
Without a cessation
A chaste modulation
    Hastens adown to subdominant key,
Where melody mellow-like
Singing so ’cello-like
    Rises and falls in a wild ecstasy.
Scarce is this finished
When chords all diminished
    Break loose in a patter that comes down like rain;
A pedal-point wonder
Rivaling thunder,
    Now all is mad agitation again.
Like laughter jolly
Begins the finale;
    Again does the ’cello its tones seem to lend
Diminuendo ad molto crescendo.
    Ah! Rubinstein only could make such an end!

Pink faces—(worlds or flowers or seas or stars),
You all alike are patterned with hot bars

Of coloured light; and falling where I stand,
The sharp and rainbow splinters from the band

Seem fireworks, splinters of the Infinite—
(Glitter of leaves the echoes). And the night

Will weld this dust of bright Infinity
To forms that we may touch and call and see:—

Pink pyramids of faces: tulip-trees
Spilling night perfumes on the terraces.

The music, blond airs waving like a sea
Draws in its vortex of immensity

The new-awakened flower-strange hair and eyes
Of crowds beneath the floating summer skies.

And, ’gainst the silk pavilions of the sea
I watch the people move incessantly

Vibrating, petals blown from flower-hued stars
Beneath the music-fireworks’ waving bars;

So all seems indivisible, at one:
The flow of hair, the flowers, the seas that run,—

A coloured floating music of the night
Through the pavilions of the Infinite.

Beat the drums of tragedy for me.
Beat the drums of tragedy and death.
And let the choir sing a stormy song
To drown the rattle of my dying breath.

Beat the drums of tragedy for me,
And let the white violins whir thin and slow,
But blow one blaring trumpet note of sun
To go with me
                       to the darkness
                                                where I go.

Grey, fingered with flickering threads
           of light; 
Silence broken by restless quavers
           of music. 
Greyness, music, 
A playing thought of slumber. 
And on my lips faintly disturbing fingers, 
And at my heart love’s hand like a 
           child’s hand
Stirring me half awake. 

          A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,
          Blown by the bright wind, debonair;
          Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,
          Above on the terrace a turret door
          Frames a lady, listless and wan,
          But fair for the eye to rest upon.
          The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,
          And looking up to the lady, sings: —
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.

          The octagon tower casts a shade
          Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;
          In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,
          The little green lizards run out and in.
          A sail dips over the ocean's rim,
          And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim.
          The minstrel touches his silver strings,
          And gazing up to the lady, sings: —
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.

          Slowly she walks to the balustrade,
          Idly notes how the blossoms fade
          In the sun's caress; then crosses where
          The shadow shelters a carven chair.
          Within its curve, supine she lies,
          And wearily closes her tired eyes.
          The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,
          And holding the lady spellbound, sings: —
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.

          Clouds sail over the distant trees,
          Petals are shaken down by the breeze,
          They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;
          The sighing of waves sounds, far below.
          A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose
          Then laden with honey and love he goes.
          The minstrel woos with his silver strings,
          And climbing up to the lady, sings: —
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.

          Step by step, and he comes to her,
          Fearful lest she suddenly stir.
          Sunshine and silence, and each to each,
          The lute and his singing their only speech;
          He leans above her, her eyes unclose,
          The humming-bird enters another rose.
          The minstrel hushes his silver strings.
          Hark!  The beating of humming-birds' wings!
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.