A voice speaks
to those who will hear.
Softly it comes, as the early spring breeze,
a whisper of joy and sadness, yet not of fear.
Upon the voices of gulls is it lifted,
by lapping wavelets is it carried.
Through summer's green grass,
and winter's bare trees.
Upon the wind, in the air,
passed on by bard and scholar alike.
Few enough there be who hearken,
who seek to understand.
But to them is given a gift,
a strength of longing, a restlessness,
a strange and silent calling;
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Ulmo
