Pretty thoughts

There is something of poetry born in us each,

Though in many, perhaps, it is born without speech, -

An existence but dumb and uncertain, that strives

For expression in vain through the whole of their lives;

That is glad when the spring wears its beautiful smile,

And is sad when all nature to tears would beguile;

That can feel in the summer a glory divine

Thrilling on though the days in their silvery shine;

That can drink in delight in its radiance rare

When the mellow-hued autumn breathes peace like a

prayer;

That can weep with the world in its woe of to-day,

And to-morrow take part in its merriest play;

That can stand on the mountain-tops often, and see

Where the far-away gardens of paradise be;

That can sound with its plummet of feeling the deeps

Where despair in the darkness of destiny sleeps;

That can feel, and can be, yet can never express

All the feeling and being its life may possess,

But that yearns with a yearning no poet e'er knew

In its silence of years for the speech of the few.