A Certain Music
--by Muriel Rukeyser
Never to hear, I know in myself complete
that naked integrated music; now
it has become me, now it is nerve, song, gut
and my gross hand writes only through Mozart; see
even in withholding what you have brought to me
Renewed, foolish, reconciled to myself, I walk
this winter-country, I fly over its still-flock'd clouds
always in my isolated flesh I take
that theme's light certainty of absolute purpose
to make quick spirit when spirit most might break.
Naked you walked through my body and I turned
to you with this far music you now withhold.
O my destroyed hope! Though I never again
hear developing heaven, the growing grave-bearing earth,
my poem, my promise, my love, my sleep after love,
my hours, listening, along that music move,
and have been saved and hardly know the cold.
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