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.