 | Poems |  |
123
TO W. J. R.
WITH A MANUSCRIPT.
A common weed, a pebble, or a shellFrom the waste margent of a classic sea,
A flower that grew where some great empire fell,
Worthless themselves, are rich in memory;
So these frail lines are precious, since the hand
That shaped their calm precision wastes in mould,
And the hot brain that kindled them is cold
In its own ashes, like a blackened brand;
But where the fiery Spirit of the spell?
Weeping with trailing wings beside his tomb?
Or scowling down the ministers of doom,
That torture him upon the racks of Hell?
To bigots leave their self-created gloom,
Not this is Nature's creed, but—All is well!
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