And finally, the last poem that's
in the new manuscript, new book.
It is called "The Laughing Thrush."
Oh nameless joy of the morning, turning upward,
tumbling upward note by note out of the night, and the hush
of the dark valley, and out of what never has not been there.
Song unquestioning and unbounded--
yes, this is the place and the one time
in the whole of before and after,
with all the memory waking into it,
and the lost visages that hover around the edge of sleep,
constant and clear, and the words that lately have fallen
silent, the surface among the phrases of some future,
if there is a future--
here is where they all sing the first daylight,
whether or not there's anyone listening.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]