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“Space, the Bound of a Solid”:
Silence, Then, the Form of a Melody
Not, Silence, for thine idleness I raise|
My silence-bounded singing in thy praise,
But for thy moulding of my Mozart’s tune,
Thy hold upon the bird that sings the moon,
Thy magisterial ways.
Man’s lovely definite melody-shapes are thine,|
Outlined, controlled, compressed, complete, divine.
Also thy fine intrusions do I trace,
Thy afterthoughts, thy wandering, thy grace,
Within the poet’s line.
Thy secret is the song that is to be.|
Music had never stature but for thee,
Sculptor! strong as the sculptor Space whose hand
Urged the Discobolus and bade him stand.
|* * * * *|
|Man, on his way to Silence, stops to hear and see.|
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Created April 14, 2001; not revised.