Mood by Grace Fallow Norton

Though words are littered to my hand
nothing they build can house my need.
Though words, a masked bedizened band,
surround me, mock—assail—evade—

though words come flowing from afar
having from ancient hills their red
and from this sky their cloud, their star,
still thirsty, mute, I bow my head.

For I am caught here needing speech,
sick with a lovely song unsung.
Waves broken on a desolate beach,
O not your strange confusing tongue

but rather the enchanted beat,
the deep eternal surge and sway—
silence, then running rapturous feet—
comes nearer what my heart would say.

From: Norton, Grace Follow, “Mood” in Poetry, Volume 50, Issue 3, June 1937, p. 133.

Date: 1937

By: Grace Fallow Norton (1876-1962)

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