Richard Flecknoe in 1678 wrote a poem about hermits living alone and never speaking again.

What a foolish waste


By Richard Flecknoe

Man with finger to lips

Still-born silence, you that art,
a floodgate of the deeper heart.
Offspring of a heavenly kind,
frost of the mouth, and thaw of mind.

Silent hermits, hallowed cells,
where retired devotion dwells,
with your enthusiasm, come,
seize our tongue, and strike us dumb.


By Len A.Hynds
Surgeon's Hands

I would have to listen forever,
or so it would sadly seem.
My poor tongue could be of leather,
and to join in just a dream.

First head to left and then to right,
speechless, a Trappist monk!
Being ignored is a terrible plight,
your spirits are quickly sunk.

Then the surgeonís hands, they touched me,
a miracle he performed.
Not only did my spirit fly free,
but words my silent lips formed.

Not only a life he gave me,
but of a quality, oh so rare,
The joy of contact with others,
and poor poetry to share.