The Mood
Wearied by common intercourse I stare,
Beyond this murmurous room, grown unaware
Of all the frothy words which flow, in a flood,
Over my head: the mind drowned deep
Answers in ayes and noes as if asleep:
But deeper than the intellectual reach
Of wordy speech my hearkening blood
Hears, from a neighbouring wood,
The cuckoo's cry.
I listen, and a man that is not I
Listens; our kindred sense now gone
Back to an age of stone:
And back, and back, until with dumb accord
We understand the cuckoo's wordless word;
Which, in a moment shattering space and time
Upon a rhyme,
Bids us accept the wisdom of this mood
And recognise, in silence, our own solitude.