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Walter de la Mare - Sotto Voce
Work rating: Low

To Edward Thomas

    The haze of noon wanned silver-grey,
    The soundless mansion of the sun;
    The air made visible in his ray,
    Like molten glass from furnace run,
    Quivered o`er heat-baked turf and stone
    And the flower of the gorse burned on —
    Burned softly as gold of a child`s fair hair
    Along each spiky spray, and shed
    Almond-like incense in the air
    Whereon our senses fed.

    At foot — a few sparse harebells: blue
    And still as were the friend`s dark eyes
    That dwelt on mine, transfixèd through
    With sudden ecstatic surmise.

    `Hst!` he cried softly, smiling, and lo,
    Stealing amidst that maze gold-green,
    I heard a whispering music flow
    From guileful throat of bird, unseen: —
    So delicate, the straining ear
    Scarce carried its faint syllabling
    Into a heart caught-up to hear
    That inmost pondering
    Of bird-like self with self. We stood,
    In happy trance-like solitude,
    Hearkening a lullay grieved and sweet —
    As when on isle uncharted beat
    `Gainst coral at the palm-tree`s root,
    With brine-clear, snow-white foam afloat,
    The wailing, not of water or wind —
    A husht, far, wild, divine lament,
    When Prospero his wizardry bent
    Winged Ariel to bind....
    Then silence, and o`er-flooding noon.
    I raised my head; smiled too. And he —
    Moved his great hand, the magic gone —
    Gently amused to see
    My ignorant wonderment. He sighed.
    `It was a nightingale,` he said,
    `That sotto voce cons the song
    He`ll sing when dark is spread;
    And Night`s vague hours are sweet and long,
    And we are laid abed.`
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