The poetry of earth is mostly suppressed
It has been a good while since the cricket rasped
His tickly song from the grate, and the grasshopper
Minded his old green business in the field.
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I could no more sing than cling to grass
But all the words I need are notes
There are instruments designed to catch
The water in spate, the ramming wave
The trickle of a jug-throat, but I am dumb
There are tones like cups to fit the measures of elation
But I saw the green from the road and I had none
I know what it means: my heart for joy did burst!
To make a path, to live in silent trepidation
Between song and substance
This is a curse.