Nothing to Be Said
For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small—statured cross—faced tribes
And cobble—close families
In mill—towns on dark mornings
Life is slow dying.
So are their separate ways
Of building, benediction,
Measuring love and money
Ways of slow dying.
The day spent hunting pig
Or holding a garden—party,
Hours giving evidence
Or birth, advance
On death equally slowly.
And saying so to some
Means nothing; others it leaves
Nothing to be said.
