 |
| I. |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
 | 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,
259
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 | |