Let them bury your big eyes br In the secret earth securely, br Your thin fingers, and your fair, br Soft, indefinite-colored hair,— br All of these in some way, surely, br From the secret earth shall rise; br Not for these I sit and stare, br Broken and bereft completely; br Your young flesh that sat so neatly br On your little bones will sweetly br Blossom in the air. br br But your voice,—never the rushing br Of a river underground, br Not the rising of the wind br In the trees before the rain, br Not the woodcock's watery call, br Not the note the white-throat utters, br Not the feet of children pushing br Yellow leaves along the gutters br In the blue and bitter fall, br Shall content my musing mind br For the beauty of that sound br That in no new way at all br Ever will be heard again. br br Sweetly through the sappy stalk br Of the vigorous weed, br Holding all it held before, br Cherished by the faithful sun, br On and on eternally br Shall your altered fluid run, br Bud and bloom and go to seed; br But your singing days are done; br But the music of your talk br Never shall the chemistry br Of the secret earth restore. br All your lovely words are spoken. br Once the ivory box is broken, br Beats the golden bird no more.br br Edna St.