Last year I heard the songs of birds, <br />And heard the trumpets of the bees. <br />I caught the winding river’s words, <br />And clutched at leaves of trees. <br /> <br />I heard the gales upon the height; <br />And heard each frightened windy rush, <br />I lay within the sultry night, <br />Eaves-dropping in the bush. <br /> <br />But now I walk within a town, <br />And hear the slyness of its feet. <br />Great cruel things stride up and down <br />Within a shady street. <br /> <br />I see quick things with ugly nails, <br />And hear their low half-smothered cries. <br />I hear men tell strange trembling tales <br />With big beseeching eyes. <br /> <br />I do not hear the singing bough. <br />I hear soft murders in a lane, <br />I do not feel the bush-call, now <br />I feel my brother’s pain.<br /><br />Leon Gellert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-change-17/
