For this there is no sound;
For this I cannot shape
Utterance to escape
Air where my breath is drowned.

So small a space it moves,
This, my cry of time;    
No stronger than a rhyme
Its strength of being proves.

Lying at my throat,
Secret and unbroken,
It seemed its crying, spoken,
Might leap with arrowed note.

Into fluid light
Its baffled meanings run,
Made beautiful as the sun,
Equivocal as night.

I who strive for word
That will define like death
Nourish a little faith
In the silence that is heard.