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The Silence

 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.

by Wendell Berry
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