They be chance pearls, flung among the rocks by the sullen waters of oblivion,
Which diligence loveth to gather, and hang round the neck of memory;
They be white-winged seeds of happiness, wafted from the islands of the blessed,
Which thought carefully tendeth, in the kindly garden of the heart;
They be sproutings of an harvest for eternity, bursting through the tilth of time,
Green promise of the golden wheat, that yieldeth angel’s food;
They be drops of the crystal dew, which the wings of seraphs scatter,
When on some brighter sabbath, their plumes quiver most with delight:
Such, and so precious, are the words which the lips of wisdom utter.
Martin F. Tupper.