Voiceless

Voiceless.
234.2

The poet sinned, and God said.” This be his hell”
The rivers sang him their lyrics.
The forests weaved him their spell.
He followed the Spring and Summer, knowing the winds by name.
He saw the riddle of Life when the maples were touched to flame.
The crowded spruces loved him, and taught him their ancient lore, close to his
And the wonders that kings would learn stole humble door,
Then he rose in his joy-and then he tasted his hell
With the knowledge of things in his heart and never the word to tell.

The Poet lived, with never a song to sing.
He heard the wind in the grass and the wild, free birds take wing.
He felt the snow on his face, like tears from an angel’s eyes,
And he heard the whisper of silence out of the silent skies.
“Peace,” he said to his heart. “Why should you tear me so?
Would the world be a jot the wiser, knowing the things we know?
Peace,” he cried to his soul, “for this is the will of the Lord!”
Then the music tore at his heart, slow rending it cord by cord!
-Theodore Roberts.