Poems (Bushnell)/Without a Word

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

XX
WITHOUT A WORD

In the light keeping of the air,
 Trembles a secret all things tell;
The very wind that lifts your hair
 In lands of heat hath learned it well,
Whispers it soft against your cheek,
 Breathes it in passion-laden sigh,
  So warm, so nigh,
 It has no need a word to speak.

With fluttering hearts the birds outpour
 The open secret all day long;
Now they confess and now implore,
 In the strange mystery of song,
Which seems to utter everything,
 Yet leaves the sweetest things inferred,
  Without a word.
 O birds! no wonder that you sing!

And even the silence of earth's breast
 Tells it in language still and fine;
And grown too full to be supprest,
 Reaches these flowers up for a sign.
O, for some perfect sign to tell
 What words too rudely might declare!
  Some voice of air,
 Soft as the whisper of the shell!

Yet the dumb heart can tell thee more:
 It speaks to thee with every beat;
And what it urges o'er and o'er,
 Words were less daring to entreat.
Yes, when that speaks, is all avowed;
 All that I bade my lips conceal,
  That will reveal
 Without a word, and speak it loud!