The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | ||
Enigma No. 21.
Though constantly we're in the mire,We shine and sparkle with our fire;
Part of the verb ‘to speak’ we need,
And yet no words from us proceed.
The annals of the Inquisition
Reveal too well our awful mission;
In what they call the ‘good old days,’
Our patronesses won high praise.
It is our business to convey
Men, beasts, and chattels day by day;
You often bear us near your heart,
And would be loth from us to part,
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Full often we are tired indeed;
A tribe of insects, most minute,
Receive from us a name to suit.
Long since we used to condescend
Our aid in cookery to lend.
We guide the vessel in its course,
And multiply your puny force.
The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | ||