Language

I made new speech for you, a secret tongue,

Dearest and best of all in book or scroll

To hear it spoken was to hear it sung,

I copied all of it upon my soul.

There were those leafy letters, wreathed like vines,

Such trellises of words as Sappho spoke

Heavy as silver flagons of old wines

Some Latin phrases carved by stately folk.

I could not find a sound for leavetakings

Slower, more sorrowful than Spanish is,

And the French names with flower-dusty wings

Flew in and out among the sentences.

So with my heart a voice made musical,

I went to you and did not speak at all.

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