Natural Music

The old voice of the ocean, the bird-chatter
    of little rivers,
(Winter has given them gold for silver
To stain their water and bladed green for brown
    to line their banks)
From different throats intone one language.
So I believe if we were strong enough to listen without
Divisions of desire and terror
To the storm of the sick nations, the rage of the
    hunger-smitten cities,
Those voices also would be found
Clean as a child’s; or like some girl’s breathing
    who dances alone
By the ocean-shore, dreaming of lovers.


Read more poems by Robinson Jeffers