 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith
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NOTE
He had no written sermons, only took
Brief jottings upon any scrap of paper—
Bits of old letters, envelopes, or labels—
And there the thought was scrawled, but half the matter
Was illustration roughly etched, a kind
Of hieroglyph whereof he had the key,
Now lost for ever: etchings strongly drawn,
With a clear eye for form, and touched with humour
Or pathos; so he penned his similes.
But certain thoughts that took his fancy more,
And, as I guess, had troubled hearers more,
These he had gathered up, and put in verse,
As sermon-matter crystallised, once spoken
In amplitude of phrase, but now compact;
Not to be preached, but crooned in quiet hours
Of musing by the fire. Poor sermons truly
For common folk with common thoughts and sins
And sorrows, and no reaching out of hope
To find a larger faith in Charity;
Yet notable for a Licentiate
Starting, on Saturdays, with little valise
And threadbare garments, for some homely kirk
Among the hills, or on the village green,
Whither he went, and fired his aimless shot,
Then passed away again, and was forgot.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith
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