Level Was The Song (The Aim of Song) Robert Frost Revised

 

Preliminary to humanity came to rush it rights,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough location where it caught.
The wind once roaring itself untaught,

Humanity came to explain what was wrong:
It hadn’t found the location to blow;
Blowing too hard—the level was the song.
And listen—how it ought to go!

He confiscated a midget in his mouth,
And held it considerable time for the north
To be converted into the south,
And then by measuring blew it forth.

By measuring. It was words and notes,
A little through the lips and throat.
The wind the wind had meant to be—
The Level was the song—the wind could see.