As I listened from a beach chair in the shade 
To all the noises that my garden made, 
It seemed to me only proper that words 
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds. 
 

A robin with no Christian name ran through 
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew, 
And rustling flowers for some third party waited 
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated. 
 

No one of them was capable of lying, 
There was not one which knew that it was dying 
Or could have with a rythm or a rhyme 
Assumed responsibility for time. 
 

Let them leave language to their lonely betters 
Who count some days and long for certain letters; 
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep, 
Words are for those with promises to keep