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. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/elegy-8/
