It all is noise.
When leaves fall, it is noise, and when love makes crying, sobbing, sighing (these three) it is noise.
It is well known wars have noise all through them, of cannon, of men, of trees shot down, falling by cannons' doing.
When wit is elegant, deep, wide, taking in much, and going deep into the world (how deep the world can be gone into) it is noise when it is said; it is noise.
When love is at its quietest and intensest, when sharp whispers are the thing, maybe with dry branches shaking moodily, sharply, outside, it all is noise.
Noise comes many ways.
It is sound.
It is of all, the world.
Noise is of all, the world.
From Hail, American Development (Definition Press)
© 1927, 1968 by Eli Siegel