Classic Poem

I do not sing my songs for the world to hear,
For the unresponsive heart and careless ear;
Nor do I sing to touch your heart with fire —
No stumbling song of mine could so aspire.

But all my songs are strange moon-silvered birds,
Caught in the silent, waiting heart of me —
I hear the swift wild beat of lyric wings
And tear my soul apart to set them free.