Amy Lowell: Listening


'T is you that are the music, not your song.  The song is but a door which, opening wide,  Lets forth the pent-up melody inside, Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strong Sings but of you.  Throughout your whole life long  Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide  This perfect beauty; waves within a tide, Or single notes amid a glorious throng.  The song of earth has many different chords; Ocean has many moods and many tones  Yet always ocean.  In the damp Spring woods The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones  Autumn alone can ripen.  So is this  One music with a thousand cadences.