Poems (Sill)/"Words, Words, Words"

"WORDS, WORDS, WORDS." (To ONE WHO FLOUTED THEM AS VAIN.)

I.

M I not weary of them as your heartOr ever Hamlet's was?—the empty ones,Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow tonesThat idle winds to broken reeds impart.

Have they not cursed my life?—sounds I mistookFor sacred verities,—love, faith, delight,And the sweet tales that women tell at night,When darkness hides the falsehood of the look.

I was the one of all Ulysses' crew(What time he stopped their ears) that leaped and fledUnto the sirens, for the honey-dew

Of their dear songs. The poets me have fedWith the same poisoned fruit. And even you,—Did you not pluck them for me in days dead?

II.

Nay, they do bear a blessing and a power,—Great words and true, that bridge from soul to soulThe awful cloud-depths that betwixt us roll.I will not have them so blasphemed. This hour, This little hour of life, this lean to-day,—What were it worth but for those mighty dreamsThat sweep from down the past on sounding streamsOf such high-thoughted words as poets say?

What, but for Shakespeare's and for Homer's lay,And bards whose sacred names all lips repeat?Words,—only words; yet, save for tongue and pen

Of those great givers of them unto men,And burdens they still bear of grave or sweet,This world were but for beasts, a darkling den.