Eleanor Farjeon


Words and the body always have been much pain to me,
  Little fetters and drags on immensities
  Never to be defined. I am done with these.
Meanings of silence suddenly all grow plain to me.

Something still may sing like a joyous flute in me
  Out of the life that dares to be voiced aloud,
  But speech no more shall swathe like a burial-shroud
Things unencompassable now eloquent-mute in me.

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