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Robert Laurence Binyon - Words
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Words, breathing words, full--murmuring syllables!
 How you enrich the thoughts that dwell in you
 With far--brought perfume, that no meaning tells
 Yet stirs the mind to flower in thoughts anew!

 Sometimes how lulling like the rain`s soft veil,
 Then vivid as the pressure of a hand,
 Now filled with fair surmises like a sail.
 Before the blue coast of some foreign land.

 O words, you live and therefore you can die,
 Ill--yoked, imprisoned, tamed in a dull task!
 So callous tongues may use you, but not I,
 Who for your grace, a wooing lover, ask.

 Dead things may kill; and you being dead entomb
 The frozen thought that once you clothed in bloom.
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