The Silence

"The Silence" 

Wendell Berry

Though the air is full of singing 
my head is loud 
with the labor of words. 

Though the season is rich 
with fruit, my tongue 
hungers for the sweet of speech. 

Though the beech is golden 
I cannot stand beside it 
mute, but must say 

"It is golden," while the leaves 
stir and fall with a sound 
that is not a name. 

It is in the silence 
that my hope is, and my aim. 
A song whose lines 

I cannot make or sing 
sounds men's silence 
like a root. Let me say 

and not mourn: the world 
lives in the death of speech 
and sings there.