A Sunday poem

I don't think I've posted any Robert Frost on here before. A strange oversight. It may be something to do with my not having any collections of his stuff with me here.

I did, however, find this in one of my anthologies.

He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Admittedly an eloquence so soft
Could only have had an influence on birds
When call or laughter carried it aloft.
Be that as it may, she was in their song.
Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
Had now persisted in the woods so long
That probably it never would be lost.
Never again would birds' song be the same.
And to do that to birds was why she came.


Robert Frost (1875-1963)