| Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917. |
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| 142. The Quiet Singer |
| | | By Charles Hanson Towne |
| | | | | (Ave! Francis Thompson) |
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| HE had been singing—but I had not heard his voice; | |
| He had been weaving lovely dreams of song, | |
| O many a morning long. | |
| But I, remote and far, | |
| Under an alien star, | 5 |
| Listened to other singers, other birds, | |
| And other silver words. | |
| But does the skylark, singing sweet and clear, | |
| Beg the cold world to hear? | |
| Rather he sings for very rapture of singing, | 10 |
| At dawn, or in the blue, mild Summer noon, | |
| Knowing that, late or soon, | |
| His wealth of beauty, and his high notes, ringing | |
| Above the earth, will make some heart rejoice. | |
| He sings, albeit alone, | 15 |
| Spendthrift of each pure tone, | |
| Hoarding no single song, | |
| No cadence wild and strong. | |
| But one day, from a friend far overseas, | |
| As if upon the breeze, | 20 |
| There came the teeming wonder of his words— | |
| A golden troop of birds, | |
| Caged in a little volume made to love; | |
| Singing, singing, | |
| Flinging, flinging | 25 |
| Their breaking hearts on mine, and swiftly bringing | |
| Tears, and the peace thereof. | |
| How the world woke anew! | |
| How the days broke anew! | |
| Before my tear-blind eyes a tapestry | 30 |
| I seemed to see, | |
| Woven of all the dreams dead or to be. | |
| Hills, bills of song, Springs of eternal bloom, | |
| Autumns of golden pomp and purple gloom | |
| Were hung upon his loom. | 35 |
| Winters of pain, roses with awful thorns, | |
| Yet wondrous faith in God’s dew-drenchèd morns— | |
| These, all these I saw, | |
| With that ecstatic awe | |
| Wherewith one looks into Eternity. | 40 |
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| And then I knew that, though I had not heard | |
| His voice before, | |
| His quiet singing, like some quiet bird | |
| At some one’s distant door, | |
| Had made my own more sweet; had made it more | 45 |
| Lovely, in one of God’s miraculous ways. | |
| I knew then why the days | |
| Had seemed to me more perfect when the Spring | |
| Came with old bourgeoning; | |
| For somewhere in the world his voice was raised. | 50 |
| And somewhere in the world his heart was breaking; | |
| And never a flower but knew it, sweetly taking | |
| Beauty more high and noble for his sake, | |
| As a whole wood grows lovelier for the wail | |
| Of one sad nightingale. | 55 |
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| Yet if the Springs long past | |
| Seemed wonderful before I heard his voice, | |
| I tremble at the beauty I shall see | |
| In seasons still to be, | |
| Now that his songs are mine while Life shall last. | 60 |
| O now for me | |
| New floods of vision open suddenly … | |
| Rejoice, my heart! Rejoice | |
| That you have heard the Quiet Singer’s voice! | |
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