The sun rolled round the silent earth-
If every one speaks who is to be heard?
The great white doors they tower and toll,
But they are a sanctuary;
The comfort of home.
Behind the brass knob screwed on so tight
Not even is there silence on the melancholy night.

Mutters, mummers, ticking toking of clocks
Tossing, fussing, clamoring of hawks-
The dotted white lines leer ahead,
Rushing, racing, rumbling instead.

Introvert, extrovert is there such thing-
When the quiet mind speaks and the loud mind thinks.
Is there order on an entropic earth?
Do wise men fall from inarticulate words?

The billowing willow sags over heavy heads;
He never said a word, but let you figure it out instead.