  You say a thousand things, Persuasively, And with strange passion hotly I agree, And praise your zest, And then A blackbird sings On April lilac, or fieldfaring men, Ghostlike, with loaded wain, Come down the twilit lane To rest, And what is all your argument to me? Oh yes—I know, I know, It must be so— You must devise Your myriad policies, For we are little wise, And must be led and marshalled, lest we keep Too fast a sleep Far from the central world’s realities. Yes, we must heed— For surely you reveal Life’s very heart; surely with flaming zeal You search our folly and our secret need; And surely it is wrong To count my blackbird’s song, My cones of lilac, and my wagon team, More than a world of dream. A voice calls from the hill— I must away— I cannot hear your argument to-day.
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