I never listen to the words you say
Just to the way you say them: perfectly
As if the words themselves were, in a way,
The object, and the opportunity
To say them was delight enough for you
No matter what they are; sweetly and high
Because, whatever you may say or do,
It's always joyous, and joy seems to pry
An extra octave from your vocal chords;
And warmly, for you always seem to know
Just how much comfort your sweetness affords
And how to make your hearer smile and glow.
So if you spoke, and I should be upset
I am not mad: I haven't heard it yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment