The Cool Web

Children are dumb to say how hot the sun is,

How hot the scent is of the summer rose,

How dreadful the black wastes of evening sky,

How dreadful the tall soldiers drumming by.

But we have speech that cools the hottest sun,

And speech that dulls the hottest rose's scent.

We spell away the overhanging night,

We spell away the soldiers and the fright.

There's a cool web of language winds us in

Retreat from too much gladness, too much fear:

We grow sea-green at last, and coldly die

In brininess and volubility.

But if we let our tongues lose self-possession,

. Throwing off language and its wateriness

Before our death, instead of when death comes;

Facing the brightness of the children's day,

Facing the rose, the dark sky and the drums-

We shall go mad no doubt, and die that way.