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Last year I heard the songs of birds,
And heard the trumpets of the bees.
I caught the winding river’s words,
And clutched at leaves of trees.
I heard the gales upon the height;
And heard each frightened windy rush,
I lay within the sultry night,
Eaves-dropping in the bush.
But now I walk within a town,
And hear the slyness of its feet.
Great cruel things stride up and down
Within a shady street.
I see quick things with ugly nails,
And hear their low half-smothered cries.
I hear men tell strange trembling tales
With big beseeching eyes.
I do not hear the singing bough.
I hear soft murders in a lane,
I do not feel the bush-call, now
I feel my brother’s pain.