  I walked an autumn lane, and ne'er a tune Besieged mine ear from hedge or ground or tree; The summer minstrels all had fared from me Far southward, since the snows must flock so soon. And yet the air seemed vibrant with the croon Of unseen birds and words of May-tide glee; The very silence was a melody Sown thick with memoried cadences of June. Shall we not hold that when our little day Is done, and we are of men no more, We still live on in some such subtle way, To make some silence vocal by some shore Of Recollection, or to only play Soft songs on hearts that loved us long before? —Richard Burton. |
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