The Green River

I KNOW a green grass path that leaves the field

And, like a running river, winds along

Into a leafy wood, where is no throng

Of birds at noon-day; and no soft throats yield

Their music to the moon. The place is sealed,

An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song,

And all the unravished silences belong

To some sweet singer lost, or unrevealed.

So is my soul become a silent place.…

Oh, may I wake from this uneasy night

To find some voice of music manifold.

Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face

Or love that swoons on sleep, or else delight

That is as wide-eyed as a marigold.