 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
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THE INNER LIFE.
Thy good deeds, like a spring-head out of sight,Unknown, its pure source fed with heavenly dews,
And present only in the blessèd use
Men have of it, tho' few that use requite,
Should flow unto themselves, with a delight
As secret, pure, intrinsic (lest they lose
Their blessing), as the Poet's with his Muse,
Or prayer that would to Heaven uplift its flight.
Like green oasis in some else parched waste,
A hidden fountain of delight, this keeps
The heart fresh, gives Life its diviner taste.
Oh then defile it not. If other reaps
Where thou hast sown, or with thy praise is graced,
Such voyàge but Life's shallows, thou its deeps!
| Stones from The Quarry | |