Their perfumes speak of gladness,
Their colors of delight,
They neutralize dull sadness,
Turn darkness into light.
They link the heart of sender
To heart to which they're sent,
And unto both will render
The sweetness of content.
I love them for their clearness,
Their whiteness and their blue;
But added to such dearness
Is the thought they came from you.
ALL THINGS ARE SECOND-HANDED.
On being asked to write an original poem.
"There's no new thing under the sun,"
Said the ancient priest and preacher;
What seems now new is only done
To quicken some old feature
That lies effete, or badly worn,
And lacks its pristine rigor,
That needs an energizing touch
To give it life and vigor.
The sun that shines on us to-day,
Shone on our ancient parents
Who walked upon the primal clay;
And science fully warrants
That not one atom has been lost,
And not one atom added
To all the atom matter host,
Although some forms have faded.
The gorgeous colors that are cast
On cloud-land morn and even,
Are but reflections of the past
That erst had spangled heaven
With glories from that mystic throne
Whose blendings none can rival,
But whose expiring tints, alone,
Admit of a revival.
The rain that drops has dropped before;
Our flowers were another's;
The songs we sing were sung of yore
By long departed brothers;
The sounds we hear are but the tones
Or echoes of the past;
We live among the mouldering bones
Of forms too frail to last.