No, I will not tell you what I want to tell -- I will make
The world speak for me in words written by the dots
From the spurts of rain on vulnerable sand; and in spells
That wind prints upon the gulls hit by every blow.
Yes, I make the silence echo to your voice -- by the bass
Of waves crashing at the stones, in the ears of storm;
By the whisper of the rain that shut my mouth with its wet
Long hands; and the anxious train waking up the birds.
No, I will not show you what I want to show -- I will make
Swift trees mirror you my dreams in a pantomime,
When the sweeping wind tears off the leaves and remains
In boughs swinging close to touch and to intertwine.