Word Lives, A

I shape my word, and fling it on the gale,
     Like bread cast on the waters to return
     In after days; ir, if the fates be stern,
To drift unechoed till some sufferer pale
May catch the sound, and hush his bitter wail,
     To welcome the unshrinking hopes that burn
     In its full utterance, and, it may be, learn
That lives to truth devoted never fail!
I may not hear an echo of that word
     Come from the hollow air that wafts it on,
Or know what deeps of conscious being are stirred
     By its vibration where its sound hath gone.
But this I know, by laws the heavens ordain,
No word of earnest faith was ever breathed in vain!

For good or ill the words we speak have wings:
     They speed afar, white dove or raven dark,—
     One finding pretty returns not to the ark,
And one for peace the greening olive brings.
But some are venomed insects armed with stings,
     That strike and fly, and leave their bitter mark!
     While here the wren, and there the morning lark,
In some fair bower to some fair listener sings!
Freed from our hand, we cannot call them back,
     But in their nest can crush the evil brood!
Starve out the ravening prey-birds, gray and black,
     And nurse the fledgling swans with generous food.
Profane not, then, the silence of the air
By any word of prey let loose to sting and tear!