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by Amy Lowell, 1912

I do not care to talk to you although
 Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies,
 And all my being's silent harmonies
Wake trembling into music.  When you go
It is as if some sudden, dreadful blow
 Had severed all the strings with savage ease.
 No, do not talk; but let us rather seize
This intimate gift of silence which we know.
 Others may guess your thoughts from what you say,
As storms are guessed from clouds where darkness broods.
 To me the very essence of the day
Reveals its inner purpose and its moods;
 As poplars feel the rain and then straightway
Reverse their leaves and shimmer through the woods.

Published in A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass

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