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.
