Classic Poem

Not for any troubled reason
Are words sweet upon my tongue,
Not for branches, bowed and silken,
Where once blossoms faintly clung;

Not for brittle leaves whose falling
Made pale sorrow of a stone,
But for sake of streaming fingers,
For unhungered flesh and bone.

There are words that sound like water
Dripping where the grass is deep;
These are mine for sake of singing
My long hands to sleep.