Hath laden o’erfull o’ truth,
And wasteth ’pon the air,
And falleth not unto thine ear.
Think ye He scattereth whither
E’en such an grain? Nay.
And do ye seek o’ spill
And put unto thy song,
’Twill fill its emptiness.
Ye seek to sing but o’ thy song,
And ’tis an empty strain. ’Tis need