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Poem	But then there comes that moment rare When, for no cause that I can find, The little voices of the air Sound above all the sea and wind. The sea and wind do then obey And sighing, sighing double notes Of double basses, content to play A droning chord for the little throats-- The little throats that sing and rise Up into the light with lovely ease And a kind of magical, sweet surprise To hear and know themselves for these-- For these little voices: the bee, the fly The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks, The breeze on the grass-tops bending by, The shrill quick sound that insect makes.
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