The Silent Oaths

How shall we know the way to the place Where our tread on the heavenly rooms is unknown, Where each of us waits in the dark beside his desk For a sound in the crook of evening’s hand? And shall it be as the rain that bonds To the fluster of the return of spring, Or shall we hear the whispers cross the night, From shadows of mountains of mournful song, Shall we brace ourselves up strait while we write, And sum our sadness among the moving trees?

For every creature walks in and out, Of that heart of the world’s questions of calm,
Retreating from its soundless rest, Leaving a pulse in the trembling palm.

• John Crowe Ransom