We know not what mysterious power Lies latent in our words and deeds, -- Sweet as the perfume of a flower, Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds; But something certainly survives The passing of our fleeting lives. A look, a pressure of the hand, A sign of hope, a song of cheer, May journey over sea and land, Outliving many a sterile year, To find at last the destined hour When they shall leap to bud and flower. We write, we print, then -- nevermore To be recalled -- our thoughts take flight, Like white-winged birds that leave the shore, And scattering, lose themselves in light; For good or ill those words may be The arbiters of destiny. Perchance some fervid plea may find A heart to rise to its appeal; Some statement rouse a dormant mind, Or stir a spirit, quick to feel; Nay, through some note of gentler tone Even love may recognize its own. Fain would I deem not wholly dead The spoken words of former years, And every printed page, when read, A source of smiles, instead of tears; That friends, whom I shall never see, May, for a time, remember me. |