Then to the dove's ear it will creep: And curl itself, or start for flight— Whate'er it does, it brings delight. Yet tender doth the word remain, Soon it is ill, soon well again: So if its little life you'd spare, O grasp it lightly and with care, Nor heavy hand upon it lay, For e'en a cruel glance would slay! There it would lie, unsouled, poor thing! All stark, all formless, and all cold, Its little body changed and battered, By death and dying rudely shattered. A dead word is a hateful thing, A barren, rattling, ting-ting-ting. A curse on ugly trades I cry That doom all little words to die! THE WANDERER AND HIS SHADOW A Book You'll ne'er go on nor yet go back?
Table of Contents
EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY
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