“We know what his soul whispereth to him…”
Sitting at ease in ultragalactic foyers
This sound we frequently hear and clearly trace
Above the creaking of satellitic poles
Above the sleetlike fall of
Stardust down,
Down through the icy curvature of space.
Not the stupendous murmur of solar fires
Nor the hiss and sting of cinders from the sun
Nor the silver whine of moons swung round and round—
This is a strange and terrible, tiny sound
So soft the ancient light of the furthest stars
Falls not more faintly on the arctic snow;
So brief that a flake of snow in the sun’s eye
Outlives this note unheard ever by beast
Or bird, or the wise, antennaed radio.
Man cannot hear it, straining his ear to the ground,
Or locked to his love, though their breath and blood are one.
Listen! His soul is whispering to him now…
We have heard it clear as his love has never done—
This is that strange and terrible, tiny sound