Page:The man against the sky; a book of poems.djvu/114

 All the words of all the world, Aimed together and then hurled, Would be stiller in his ears Than a closing of still shears On a thread made out of years.

But there lives another sound, More compelling, more profound; There's a music, so it seems, That assuages and redeems, More than reason, more than dreams.

There's a music yet unheard By the creature of the word, Though it matters little more Than a wave-wash on a shore— Till a Demon shuts a door.