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Conrad Aiken

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A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me
Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret.
I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown.

 
Conrad Aiken

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Sound, jocund strains; on pipe and viol sound,
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And all day long, so close and near,
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And all day long, so close and near,
As in a mystic dream I hear
Their gentle accents kind and dear —
The old familiar voices.
They have no sound that I can reach —
But silence sweeter is than speech;

 
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The mind perceives ... that it is higher than institutions, which are but the woof and web of its thought and will, which it weaves and outgrows, and weaves again.

 
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