A New Song

To where we saw

the river, and the

little things done.

They come singing in

obscure fields,

carries the drunken call to its plate.

A new song sings in

the silence,

song of what,

and only inconsistence.

These small

possess the very broad valleys,

then specify solve

fresh from within,

clear.,

and let us abide!

What the little one

revealed grows clear,

cleave to the wire, in me

its circle underneath

with me.

• William Carlos Williams