Sotto Voce

(To EDWARD THOMAS)     The haze of noon wanned silver-grey,     The soundless mansion of the sun;     The air made visible in his ray,     Like molten glass from furnace run,     Quivered o'er heat-baked turf and stone     And the flower of the gorse burned on,     Burned softly as gold of a child's fair hair     Along each spiky spray, and shed     Almond-like incense in the air     Whereon our senses fed.     At foot, a few sparse harebells: blue     And still as were the friend's dark eyes     That dwelt on mine, transfixd through     With sudden ecstatic surmise.     'Hst!' he cried softly, smiling, and lo,     Stealing amidst that maze gold-green,     I heard a whispering music flow     From guileful throat of bird, unseen:     So delicate, the straining ear     Scarce carried its faint syllabling     Into a heart caught-up to hear     That inmost pondering     Of bird-like self with self. We stood,     In happy trance-like solitude,     Hearkening a lullay grieved and sweet,     As when on isle uncharted beat     'Gainst coral at the palm-tree's root,     With brine-clear, snow-white foam afloat,     The wailing, not of water or wind,     A husht, far, wild, divine lament,     When Prospero his wizardry bent     Winged Ariel to bind....     Then silence, and o'er-flooding noon.     I raised my head; smiled too. And he,     Moved his great hand, the magic gone,     Gently amused to see     My ignorant wonderment. He sighed.     'It was a nightingale,' he said,     'That sotto voce cons the song     He'll sing when dark is spread;     And Night's vague hours are sweet and long,     And we are laid abed.'