How can I offer you the dull, frayed song
Marion Strobel, untitled sonnet
Of love I know? Each word would stumble on
A memory; and I should see a long
Blurred line of faces grimacing upon
A musty curtain of the past …. Ah, no ….
Let me be silent …. Words would only sound
A monotone: a toxic, cloying flow
Of echoes would sift through, and eddy round
My voice, and all the rapture that I feel
Would turn into a harlequin and steal
Away beneath the vivid, measured hum
Of mockery. Ah, dearest, may there come
An ecstasy of stillness in each day,
That you may sense the thoughts I dare not say!
Poetry (XV:vi) March 1920, p. 316
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