SOTTO VOCE

(To Edward Thomas)

THE haze of noon wanned silver-greyThe soundless mansion of the sun;The air made visible in his ray,Like molten glass from furnace run,Quivered o'er heat-baked turf and stoneAnd the flower of the gorse burned on—Burned softly as gold of a child's fair hairAlong each spiky spray, and shedAlmond-like incense in the airWhereon our senses fed.At foot—a few sparse harebells: blueAnd still as were the friend's dark eyesThat dwelt on mine, transfixèd throughWith sudden ecstatic surmise.'Hst!' he cried softly, smiling, and lo,Stealing amidst that maze gold-green,I heard a whispering music flowFrom guileful throat of bird, unseen:—So delicate the straining earScarce carried its faint syllablingInto a heart caught-up to hearThat inmost ponderingOf bird-like self with self. We stood,In happy trance-like solitude,Hearkening a lullay grieved and sweet—As when on isle uncharted beat'Gainst coral at the palm-tree's root,With brine-clear, snow-white foam afloat,The wailing, not of water or wind—A husht, far, wild, divine lament,When Prospero his wizardry bentWinged Ariel to bind....Then silence, and o'er-flooding noon.I raised my head; smiled too. And he—Moved his great hand, the magic gone—Gently amused to seeMy ignorant wonderment. He sighed.'It was a nightingale,' he said,'Thatsotto vocecons the songHe'll sing when dark is spread;And Night's vague hours are sweet and long.And we are laid abed.'

THE haze of noon wanned silver-grey

The soundless mansion of the sun;

The air made visible in his ray,

Like molten glass from furnace run,

Quivered o'er heat-baked turf and stone

And the flower of the gorse burned on—

Burned softly as gold of a child's fair hair

Along each spiky spray, and shed

Almond-like incense in the air

Whereon our senses fed.

At foot—a few sparse harebells: blueAnd still as were the friend's dark eyesThat dwelt on mine, transfixèd throughWith sudden ecstatic surmise.

At foot—a few sparse harebells: blue

And still as were the friend's dark eyes

That dwelt on mine, transfixèd through

With sudden ecstatic surmise.

'Hst!' he cried softly, smiling, and lo,Stealing amidst that maze gold-green,I heard a whispering music flowFrom guileful throat of bird, unseen:—So delicate the straining earScarce carried its faint syllablingInto a heart caught-up to hearThat inmost ponderingOf bird-like self with self. We stood,In happy trance-like solitude,Hearkening a lullay grieved and sweet—As when on isle uncharted beat'Gainst coral at the palm-tree's root,With brine-clear, snow-white foam afloat,The wailing, not of water or wind—A husht, far, wild, divine lament,When Prospero his wizardry bentWinged Ariel to bind....

'Hst!' he cried softly, smiling, and lo,

Stealing amidst that maze gold-green,

I heard a whispering music flow

From guileful throat of bird, unseen:—

So delicate the straining ear

Scarce carried its faint syllabling

Into a heart caught-up to hear

That inmost pondering

Of bird-like self with self. We stood,

In happy trance-like solitude,

Hearkening a lullay grieved and sweet—

As when on isle uncharted beat

'Gainst coral at the palm-tree's root,

With brine-clear, snow-white foam afloat,

The wailing, not of water or wind—

A husht, far, wild, divine lament,

When Prospero his wizardry bent

Winged Ariel to bind....

Then silence, and o'er-flooding noon.I raised my head; smiled too. And he—Moved his great hand, the magic gone—Gently amused to seeMy ignorant wonderment. He sighed.'It was a nightingale,' he said,'Thatsotto vocecons the songHe'll sing when dark is spread;And Night's vague hours are sweet and long.And we are laid abed.'

Then silence, and o'er-flooding noon.

I raised my head; smiled too. And he—

Moved his great hand, the magic gone—

Gently amused to see

My ignorant wonderment. He sighed.

'It was a nightingale,' he said,

'Thatsotto vocecons the song

He'll sing when dark is spread;

And Night's vague hours are sweet and long.

And we are laid abed.'

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