This Is Mine

This
Is mine, and I can hold it;
Lying here
In the hour before dawn, knowing that the cruel June
Frost has made the green lawn
White and brittle, smelling that the night was very cold,
Wondering if the lush, well-loved, well-tended,
Hoed and rowed and watched with pride
And with anxiety
So long,—oh, cruel, cruel,
Unseasonable June—
Whether all that green will be black long before noon—

This
I know: that what I hear
Is a thrush; and very near,
Almost on the sill of my open window, close to my ear.
I was startled, but I made no motion, I knew
What I had to do-stop breathing, not be
Here at all, and I have accomplished this. He has not yet known
Anything about me; he is singing very loud
And with leisure: he is all alone.

Oh, beautiful, oh, beautiful,
Oh, the most beautiful that I ever have heard,
Anywhere, including the nightingale.
It is not so much the tune
Although the tune is lovely, going suddenly higher
Than you expect, and neat, and something like the nightingale dropping
And throbbing very low.
It is not so much the notes, it is the quality of the voice,
Something to do perhaps with over-tone
And under-tone, and implication
Felt, but not quite heard—

Oh, this is much to ask
Of two delicate ear-drums and of some other perception
Which I do not understand, a little oversensitive
Oh, this is much to ask
Of two delicate ear-drums and of some other perception
Which I do not understand, a little oversensitive
Perhaps to certain sounds.
All my senses
Have broken their dikes and flooded into one, the sense of hearing.

I have no choice,
I think, if I wish to continue to live: I am beginning to shiver
Already: I may be shattered
Like a vessel too thin
For certain vibrations.
Go away now, I think; go down to the damp hemlocks near
the brook in the hollow,
Where I cannot quite follow
Your deepest notes, through the dissipating air.
But return soon.

Not so soon, though,
Quite, perhaps,
As tomorrow.