That is the whistle of the wind--it is not my voice;
That is the fluttering, the flattering of the spray;
Those are the shadows of leaves.
That is the fluttering, the flattering of the spray;
Those are the shadows of leaves.
Whitman
Shake out, carols!
Solitary here--the night's carols!
Carols of lonesome love! Death's carols!
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!
O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea!
O reckless, despairing carols!
But soft! sink low;
Soft! let me just murmur;
And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea;
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
So faint--I must be still, be still to listen;
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.
Hither, my love!
Here I am! Here!
With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you;
This gentle call is for you, my love, for you!
Do not be decoyed elsewhere!
That is the whistle of the wind--it is not my voice;
That is the fluttering, the flattering of the spray;
Those are the shadows of leaves.
O darkness! O in vain!
O I am very sick and sorrowful!
O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea!
O troubled reflection in the sea!
O throat! O throbbing heart!
O all! --and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. !
Yet I murmur, murmur on!
O murmurs--you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why.
O past! O life! O songs of joy!
