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.