Once I made a word. It dropped
From thought to being on my breath,
And stunned to see it live, I stopped,
Hushed, lest I also cause its death.
It faded (words do not live long)--
But ere its form could quite depart,
Another word, not mine, like song
To answering song found my word's heart;
And I could only stare and start.
Clumsily more words found their way
From thought to being, breath to sound;
Like strands of living soul-stuff, they
My soul to each new soul enwound.
Wondrous thing, that souls might touch!
Quicker and quicker came they now,
My words; and marveling that such
A thing might be, I let them flow,
Unhindered yet by why or how.
Could so rare and sweet a brew
Fail ever? But it did, and does;
Still precious as when it was new,
Communion fades from is to was;
Silence returns, my words have fled,
Finding they have no more to say
Perhaps--or wish not to be said;
And my heart hides itself away,
Lost in a word too plain to say.