Ten fingers have I, twining smooth and white
Wherewith I tell that which my tongue cannot.
No laggards they to set Love's eyes alight,
while my rude tongue sounds strange and polyglot.
Ten points of flame to tell the poet's fire
Or trace the lightning from a turbid sky;
To pluck soft music from a stringless lyre,
Or hurl toward heaven that great question: Why?
Ten tongues that bid the speaking tongue be still,
Ten rebel tongues that these my woes declare,
Through light those woes be (have it so I will),
That may infrequently be found in prayer.
If these be tongues, then tenfold told my tale
Than one rude tongue in speaking could avail.
~ Loy E. Golladay, 1914-1999,
postlingually deaf adult, anthropological linguist,
and former teacher of one of UConn’s ASL instructors
