On Hearing a Very Famous Man Speak Profoundly
by Lucy Miller Murray
I sat complacent on that tin chair
And heard the ancient scholar say
That what is real we cannot know for certain
But only hope to feel at times its insufficient shade;
And all about me the learned heads would nod
In blind agreement of despair that knew itself
As innocent pattering upon paneled walls
That dulled its awful content and held mute the bleating heart.
Yet all this while I longed to press my lips upon your ear
And tell you of the drab, unconscious sparrow
That stared unblinking through the pane,
A gray bird on a gray bush, unconcerned, but there.