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Song of Poplars - a poem by Aldous Huxley

by: Aldous Huxley

Shepherd, to yon tall poplars tune your flute: 
Let them pierce keenly, subtly shrill, 
The slow blue rumour of the hill; 
Let the grass cry with an anguish of evening gold, 
And the great sky be mute. 

Then hearken how the poplar trees unfold 
Their buds, yet close and gummed and blind, 
In airy leafage of the mind, 
Rustling in silvery whispers the twin-hued scales 
That fade not nor grow old. 

"Poplars and fountains and you cypress spires 
Springing in dark and rusty flame, 
Seek you aught that hath a name? 
Or say, say: Are you all an upward agony 
Of undefined desires? 

"Say, are you happy in the golden march 
Of sunlight all across the day? 
Or do you watch the uncertain way 
That leads the withering moon on cloudy stairs 
Over the heaven's wide arch? 

"Is it towards sorrow or towards joy you lift 
The sharpness of your trembling spears? 
Or do you seek, through the grey tears 
That blur the sky, in the heart of the triumphing blue, 
A deeper, calmer rift?" 

So; I have tuned my music to the trees, 
And there were voices, dim below 
Their shrillness, voices swelling slow 
In the blue murmur of hills, and a golden cry 
And then vast silences.

Song of Poplars - a poem by Aldous Huxley

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