Maxims
The heart is hard that cannot feel
The bruising of a light appeal.
The heart is deaf that cannot hear
The splashing of a tiny tear.
The heart is dumb that cannot say
“God speed you, comrades,” night and day.
The heart is blind that cannot see
The beckoning soul of mystery.
The heart is lame that cannot rise
From clamouring earth to silent skies.
And O that heart were better dead
That truckles to the prudent head
