There was something in the singer’s voice
That cried out like a lost choice,
As the music hurtled through the room
In a fragile, vulnerable tune.
The man in the room heard the sound
And woke from half-sleep’s dreary ground,
So that he felt a hint quite still
And light and clear like air, until
He heard the heartstrings of the song
Inside him like a sadness long.
And as he lay he let it fill
Him hot and cold and hot until
All the empty things were sore,
And then he heard the song once more.
There are many blue shades
In the sky and the sea,
In the eyes open wide,
And the china for tea.
There are so many greens
In the leaves and the stalks,
In the coral far deep,
And the shell that still walks.
There are many of gray
In the clouds soft and hard,
In the days that have passed,
And the rains in the yard.
And when they combine
They could all turn to mud,
Or could find themselves light
And in light be a bud.