'Natural History of Silence' (a delightful read) by Jérôme Sueur in which he describes a wonderful definition of silence as proffered by a nursery school child 'Silence is a sound which does not make a noise'. I'm moved by the profundity in such a simple yet poetic observation, and in my recent contemplations of this I was reminded of a poem by Walter de la Mare 'The Listeners'. I'd learned it in junior school many years ago for a choral speaking competition and, whilst the precise words had... Read more
'Natural History of Silence' (a delightful read) by Jérôme Sueur in which he describes a wonderful definition of silence as proffered by a nursery school child 'Silence is a sound which does not make a noise'. I'm moved by the profundity in such a simple yet poetic observation, and in my recent contemplations of this I was reminded of a poem by Walter de la Mare 'The Listeners'. I'd learned it in junior school many years ago for a choral speaking competition and, whilst the precise words had long escaped my mind, the feelings of sound and silence, of hearing and listening, were somehow roused and relived in response to this child's words. The poem is below and I'd like to petition for the reintroduction of 'hearkening' to general parlance. I might offer a set of 'hearkeners' to the next director I work with, when they ask for IEMs/listeners!
The Listeners
By Walter de La Mare
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
The Listeners
By Walter de La Mare
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
