Aug 122011
 
Really the only medley that I like
Is the medley the mind makes when all songs
Have ceased. Surfeit of silence,
Or so it seems, become a storm of drums,
A vast catastrophe of cymbals crashing,
So and so, upon memory minus remorse.
The discarded songs, played through, had come
To their melodious ends and settled hues;
Absent amorous fingers fiddling on their strings,
Untouched, they did not know what else to do
After the final ting. Are they waiting,
The songs, to be taken up, be played, be plucked
With protesting recitations of gorgeous notes
Back into existence? If so, if surely so, then song
Did never have an end, nor is ended now
As I hear in inner ear a medley most morose
And happiest too to tell me what it is
In a silence that sings through me like a song.

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