Words
WORDS are but passing symbols of the deep
Crying unto deep in individual souls.
And men are words on the great voice that rolls
Through Nature, since that morn when from their sleep
The elements heard, and they who vigil keep
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On Heaven’s battlements, to distant poles
Re-echoed, “Let light be!”—such voice as tolls
The birth and death of all who laugh or weep.
Not uniform, but in a wondrous plan,
Each diverse from his fellows, symbol each
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Of varying thought in the eternal mind.
Now at the feet of every age of man
We sit and learn. Haply, in perfect speech
Its voice will be God’s message to our kind.
