I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song.
I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place?
Never discuss the poem you contemplate writing. It's like turning on the outside spigot. It takes all the pressure off the upstairs bathroom.
Now close the windows and hush all the fields: If the trees must, let them silently toss.
And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song.
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