by Elizabeth Bishop
I am in need of music that would flow
over my fretful, feeling finger tips,
over my bitter tainted, trembling lips,
with melody, deep, clear and liquid slow.
Oh for the healing, swaying, old and low,
of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
a song to fall like water on my head,
and over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow.
There is quiet made by melody,
a spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
heart, that sinks through fading colours deep
to the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
and floats forever in a moon green pool,
held in the arms of rhythm and sleep.
Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979) was an American poet and short story writer. She was America’s poet laureate in 1949 and Pulitzer prize winner in 1956.
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