All the hours and hours and hours,All the days and days and daysThat the song within me bides its timeIn the caves of the eloquent ways.
And no huge striving brings it forth,And no abortive straining,For the soul breathes out in its own good time,And the buds flood into flaming.
Like the flat topped water's unsurprise,Like the wheel cog's prudent beat,Is the round of the mind in the vital grindOf the man whose soul would eat.
There can be no clipping the idle rung,No sagging the restful car,For the world leans high to the soul's young eye,And the hunt girds out too far.
A breath from the lip of the orchid man,A touch from the ear of the mole,And the shout of the world at the womb unfurledStrikes a life to the unfound soul.
