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Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Sonnet CLXX

Alone at home, when silence plays its game,
I rest in peace. The only sounds that mar
are humming tunes of fridges, passing cars,
the naughty winds against the house’s frame,
the nightly taps on panes by insect dames,
and restless barks of canine pets afar.
These sounds are barely audible, like stars
above my gentle window, light and tame,
perceptible, but almost hidden by
the mane of night, a lofty little cloak;
its other trade the noiseless, quiet Mute,
which dims the squalor all around and sighs;
its silent breath that shakes the sleeping oaks
and strums them mutely, branches like a lute.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

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