"PS-400 Old Poets- A Sense of Where We Stood" by Numi Who

License $25

Single $0.25

Album $6

song written to the old poem "Each in His Own Tongue" by (the old poet) William Herbert Carruth a_sense_of_where_we_stood_chorus

lyricist instrumentalist soloist satirist humorist improvisationalist popite classic rocker poetryist electronicist progressivist acousticker pioneerionator contemporaryist electronic music mannheimie singer song writerer originalicist classicalister comedyiker vocalaloquist com posererie uniquer mult instrumentalist synthesizerismistytitian avant gardist game music mukiester neo classyciscicist pianerist cross genre dresser

Numi Who

I now create music so people can spend time with better company.

Cover Songs on Soundclick: https://www.soundclick.com/numiwhocreativecovers Writing: https://allpoetry.com/Mr._Numi_Who- Books: Numi Who? on Amazon (books) Art: http://wbiro.deviantart.com Early Art: http://www.flickr.com/photos/38154648@N00 Music Videos: http://www.youtube.com/user/wbiro Self-made Music Catalog (to 2016): http://numi-imagination-creations.me/01-art-catalog/wbiro_artistic_catalog_1967-2016_update_34.html Original Music on Soundcloud (more complete list there): https://soundcloud.com/wbiro Cover Songs on Soundcloud (more complete list there): https://soundcloud.com/user-288568536

Song Info

Genre

Podcasts • Poetry

Charts

Peak #26

Peak in subgenre #6

Author

music: wbiro

Rights

wbiro

Uploaded

August 17, 2015

Track Files

MP3

MP3 4.8 MB • 192 kbps • 3:29

Lyrics

Each in his own Tongue

 A fire-mist and a planet,
     A crystal and a cell,
 A jelly-fish and a saurian,
     And caves where the cave-men dwell;
 Then a sense of law and beauty
     And a face turned from the clod, --
 Some call it Evolution,
     And others call it God.

 A haze on the far horizon,
     The infinite, tender sky,
 The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,
     And the wild geese sailing high;
 And all over upland and lowland
     The charm of the golden-rod, --
 Some of us call it Autumn,
     And others call it God.

 Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,
     When the moon is new and thin,
 Into our hearts high yearnings
     Come welling and surging in:
 Come from the mystic ocean,
     Whose rim no foot has trod, --
 Some of us call it Longing,
     And others call it God.

 A picket frozen on duty,
     A mother starved for her brood,
 Socrates drinking the hemlock,
     And Jesus on the rood;
 And millions who, humble and nameless,
     The straight, hard pathway plod, --
 Some call it Consecration,
     And others call it God.

-- William Herbert Carruth

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