Their Lonely Betters Ned Rorem

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

Not one of them was capable of lying
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time

Let them leave languagе to their lonely bettеrs
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