i am in need of music that would flow
over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
with melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow
oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
a song to fall like water on my head,
and over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow
there is a magic made by melody:
a spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
to the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
and floats forever in a moon-green pool,
held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep
elizabeth bishop em "sonnet" . natick, 1928 .
