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Sara Teasdale - To An Aeolian Harp
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The winds have grown articulate in thee, 
And voiced again the wail of ancient woe 
That smote upon the winds of long ago: 
The cries of Trojan women as they flee, 
The quivering moan of pale Andromache, 
Now lifted loud with pain and now brought low. 
It is the soul of sorrow that we know, 
As in a shell the soul of all the sea. 
So sometimes in the compass of a song, 
Unknown to him who sings, thro` lips that live, 
The voiceless dead of long-forgotten lands 
Proclaim to us their heaviness and wrong 
In sweeping sadness of the winds that give 
Thy strings no rest from weariless wild hands.
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