A Thought.
132
Not sounds, like beads that follow
And tinkle as they fall,
While every one is hollow,
No pearl among them all;
To delve in thought's recesses,
And find the virgin gold,
And through the mind's fine presses
A current coinage mould
That, from the brain fresh-minted,
Shall pass from hand to hand,
And, with truth's seal imprinted,
Enrich a needy land.
And tinkle as they fall,
While every one is hollow,
No pearl among them all;
To delve in thought's recesses,
And find the virgin gold,
And through the mind's fine presses
A current coinage mould
That, from the brain fresh-minted,
Shall pass from hand to hand,
And, with truth's seal imprinted,
Enrich a needy land.
Oh! this is joy to utter,
Not strange and foreign words,
But the soft sounds that flutter
The throats of nesting birds,
To aid, by living phrases,
Tired souls their watch to keep,
Or, 'mid life's harsh amazes,
Sing one sad heart to sleep.
Not strange and foreign words,
But the soft sounds that flutter
The throats of nesting birds,
To aid, by living phrases,
Tired souls their watch to keep,
Or, 'mid life's harsh amazes,
Sing one sad heart to sleep.
