A seething soup of prophets' songs,
Entrances my return,
I stagger through the drooping woods,
As notes drip from my mouth;
I fall and hit the grassy ground,
A field at forest's edge;
I sleep beside a bale of hay,
Still singing while I lay.
Fayette has seen the fleshy rays,
A dozen gather round,
My mother standing by my side,
I wake, afire with sound.
Prophetic songs enchant my mouth
A vague and hollow dream,
My head spills out into the field,
A dancing silver stream.
My mother catches notes in air
and sets them on a page;
The prophets fleeting traces fixed
Forever frozen lay.
They tell of singing prophets and of
Jesus' sad remove,
Proclaim the strange transcendent pow'r
That singing voices hold.