Sonnet CCXLIX

I do not know what Silence is, but know its sound:
a hissing furnace, meshing cars at falling dusk.
At least, when coming close, the closing silence trusts
I know its call. Descending, almost mutely loud -

I do not know how Silence feels, but know its touch:
sensation dawning on my scalp, a tactile musk,
an odour visible as darkness, vast and brusque.
I know the call. But Silence flees my waiting brow –

It angers me: and even now, my silent words
are setting minds about, as noisy, crowing birds.

Perhaps in Death I’ll see my Silence, though it keeps
no bulky form, and cruel sensation’s gift shall die.
Or maybe Death has other feelings for our eyes:
why Sleepers never wake from blissful, silent Sleep.