"WORDS, WORDS, WORDS."

(TO ONE WHO FLOUTED THEM AS VAIN.)

I.

M I not weary of them as your

heart

Or ever Hamlet's was ? the

empty ones,

Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow

tones

That idle winds to broken reeds impart.

Have they not cursed my life? — sounds I mistook

For sacred verities, love, faith, delight, And the sweet tales that women tell at

night,

When darkness hides the falsehood of the

look.

I was the one of all Ulysses' crew

(What time he stopped their ears) that leaped and fled

Unto the sirens, for the honey-dew

Of their dear songs. The poets me have

fed

With the same poisoned fruit. And even

you,

Did you not pluck them for me in days dead?

II.

Nay, they do bear a blessing and a pow

er,

Great words and true, that bridge from soul to soul

The awful cloud-depths that betwixt us roll.

I will not have them so blasphemed. This

hour,

92

Words, Words, Words"

This little hour of life, this lean to-day,

What were it worth but for those mighty dreams

That sweep from down the past on sounding streams

Of such high-thoughted words as poets say?

What, but for Shakespeare's and for Homer's lay,

And bards whose sacred names all lips

repeat?

Words, only words; yet, save for tongue and pen

Of those great givers of them unto men, And burdens they still bear of grave or

sweet,

This world were but for beasts, a darkling

den.

All the notes of the forest-throng,

Flute, reed, and string, are in his song;
Never a fear knows he, nor wrong,
Nor a doubt of anything.

Small room for care in that soft breast; All weather that comes is to him the best, While he sees his mate close on her nest,

And the woods are full of spring.

He has lost his last year's love, I know,

He, too, — but 't is little he keeps of woe; For a bird forgets in a year, and so

No wonder the thrush can sing.