I walked an autumn lane, and ne'er a tuneBesieged mine ear from hedge or ground or tree;The summer minstrels all had fared from meFar southward, since the snows must flock so soon.And yet the air seemed vibrant with the croonOf unseen birds and words of May-tide glee;The very silence was a melodySown thick with memoried cadences of June.Shall we not hold that when our little dayIs done, and we are of men no more,We still live on in some such subtle way,To make some silence vocal by some shoreOf Recollection, or to only playSoft songs on hearts that loved us long before?—Richard Burton.
I walked an autumn lane, and ne'er a tuneBesieged mine ear from hedge or ground or tree;The summer minstrels all had fared from meFar southward, since the snows must flock so soon.And yet the air seemed vibrant with the croonOf unseen birds and words of May-tide glee;The very silence was a melodySown thick with memoried cadences of June.Shall we not hold that when our little dayIs done, and we are of men no more,We still live on in some such subtle way,To make some silence vocal by some shoreOf Recollection, or to only playSoft songs on hearts that loved us long before?—Richard Burton.
I walked an autumn lane, and ne'er a tune
Besieged mine ear from hedge or ground or tree;
The summer minstrels all had fared from me
Far southward, since the snows must flock so soon.
And yet the air seemed vibrant with the croon
Of unseen birds and words of May-tide glee;
The very silence was a melody
Sown thick with memoried cadences of June.
Shall we not hold that when our little day
Is done, and we are of men no more,
We still live on in some such subtle way,
To make some silence vocal by some shore
Of Recollection, or to only play
Soft songs on hearts that loved us long before?
—Richard Burton.