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Rh Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me, I crowd your sleekest talk by simply looking toward
 * you.

Writing and talk do not prove me, I carry the plenum of proof, and everything else, in
 * my face,

With the hush of my lips I confound the topmost
 * skeptic.

I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen, To accrue what I hear into myself—to let sounds
 * contribute toward me.

I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,
 * gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my
 * meals.

I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human
 * voice,

I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused
 * or following,

Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city—
 * sounds of the day and night,

Talkative young ones to those that like them—the
 * recitative of fish-pedlers and fruit-pedlers—the
 * loud laugh of work-people at their meals,

The angry base of disjointed friendship—the faint
 * tones of the sick,

The judge with hands tight to the desk, his shaky lips
 * pronouncing a death-sentence,

The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the
 * wharves—the refrain of the anchor-lifters,