The saddest noise, the sweetest noise
Emily Dickinson
1830 to 1886
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The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
The maddest noise grows, --
The birds, they make it in the spring,
At night's delicious close.
Between the March and April --
That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
Almost heavenly near.
It makes us think of all the
That sauntered with us here,
By separation's sorcery
Made more dear.
It makes us think of what we had,
And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those throats
Would go and sing no more.
An ear break a human heart
As quickly as a spear,
wish the ear had not a heart
So dangerously near.
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