O day—if I could cup my hands and drink of you,
And make this shining wonder be
A part of me!
O day! O day!
You lift and sway your colors on the sky
Till I am crushed with beauty. Why is there
More of reeling sunlit air
Than I can breathe? Why is there sound
In silence? Why is a singing wound
About each hour?
And perfume when there is no flower?
O day! O Day! How may I press
Nearer to loveliness?
The spring has many sounds:
Roller skates grind the pavement to noisy dust.
Birds chop the still air into small melodies.
The wind forgets to be the weather for a time
And whispers old advice for summer.
The sea stretches itself
And gently creaks and cracks its bones….
The spring has many silences:
Buds are mysteriously unbound
With a discreet significance,
And buds say nothing.
There are things that even the wind will not betray.
Earth puts her finger to her lips
And muffles there her quiet, quick activity….
Do not wonder at me
That I am hushed
This April night beside you.
The spring has many silences.