There is a beating, beating on the earth

By tiny fists,

And hairy hands pull down the bushes,

Shaggy ears are laid against the sands

In a hush of listening for the dying sound.

Then comes the rising murmur of a thousand winds

And chattering streams;

The frenzied fists forgot their echo

In a dream of leafy wind;

A bird goes sweeping up,

Sings,

And is lost;

A half-unhuman throat takes up note

And dark lips mumble in chorus,

Till the song dies out in manic mirth,

And then, resembling again,

There is the beating, beating, on the hollow earth,

The hush listening.