THERE is a road set deep in a lost canyon,
A road that winds up at its distant end
A hill, that is all but too steep for climbing,
Hung with pale grass that does not breathe nor bend.
Against a cliff, that stabs the sky, a Presence
Sits, guarded by gaunt pine trees, white and bare,
Stripped of their leaves, lest by their sighing
They break the stillness of the sacred air.
The Presence, ’neath the sun’s down-pouring chrism,
Hath set her carven hand behind her ear.
Caught with her in this mighty crystal prism,
One fain would hear what she bends down to hear.
“ Lo, you are Silence ! ” said I, climbing to her.
“ Nay,” answered she, uplifting solemn eyes,
“ I was, until ye spake; now I am Echo,
Giving you back your words, in sweeter guise.
I hear and mete and measure answer justly
Unto the world that I am brooding o’er.
To him that calls, I am Eternal Music;
To him that calls not, Silence evermore.”
Flavian Bosser,