The winds have grown articulate in thee, <br />And voiced again the wail of ancient woe <br />That smote upon the winds of long ago: <br />The cries of Trojan women as they flee, <br />The quivering moan of pale Andromache, <br />Now lifted loud with pain and now brought low. <br />It is the soul of sorrow that we know, <br />As in a shell the soul of all the sea. <br />So sometimes in the compass of a song, <br />Unknown to him who sings, thro' lips that live, <br />The voiceless dead of long-forgotten lands <br />Proclaim to us their heaviness and wrong <br />In sweeping sadness of the winds that give <br />Thy strings no rest from weariless wild hands.<br /><br />Sara Teasdale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-an-aeolian-harp/
