Unanswering voice,

Sustainer,

Lady or Lord:

I have no choice

But to attend

Your silent word.

I think again

Of the first poet

Of my tongue:

Abandoning

The sweet, profane

Intoxication

Of plucked string

And exploit sung.

At your command

He sang creation.

He had withdrawn

To where

His silence was:

Where cattle stand

And, sleeping, moan,

Stamp, grumble, snort.

As in high places dawn

Will spring

Sudden from stone,

So from the dung

And bed-straw rose

His made thought.

Angel or Muse,

Because I do

Not hear your voice

Yet cannot choose

But speak, I pray