Amy Lowell: Dreams


I do not care to talk to you although  Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies,  And all my being's silent harmonies Wake trembling into music.  When you go It is as if some sudden, dreadful blow  Had severed all the strings with savage ease.  No, do not talk; but let us rather seize This intimate gift of silence which we know.  Others may guess your thoughts from what you say, As storms are guessed from clouds where darkness broods.  To me the very essence of the day Reveals its inner purpose and its moods;  As poplars feel the rain and then straightway Reverse their leaves and shimmer through the woods.