The Voice

One feather is a bird, I claim; one tree, a wood; In her low voice I heard More than a mortal should; And so I stood apart, Hidden in my own heart. And yet I roamed out where Those notes went, like the bird, Whose thin song hung in air, Diminished, yet still heard: I lived with open sound, Aloft, and on the ground. That ghost was my own choice, The shy cerulean bird; It sang with her true voice, And it was I who heard A slight voice reply; I heard; and only I. Desire exults the ear: Bird, girl, and ghostly tree, The earth, the solid air-- Their slow song sang in me; The long noon pulsed away, Like any summer day.