The Change

Last year I heard the songs of birds, And heard the trumpets of the bees. I caught the winding river’s words, And clutched at leaves of trees. I heard the gales upon the height; And heard each frightened windy rush, I lay within the sultry night, Eaves-dropping in the bush. But now I walk within a town, And hear the slyness of its feet. Great cruel things stride up and down Within a shady street. I see quick things with ugly nails, And hear their low half-smothered cries. I hear men tell strange trembling tales With big beseeching eyes. I do not hear the singing bough. I hear soft murders in a lane, I do not feel the bush-call, now I feel my brother’s pain.