The index to a book is small
Compared with what the book contains;
The head, though but a little ball,
Incloses ardent, thoughtful brains.
And drops of rain are little things
That point to oceans in the sky;
And bridegrooms deal in little rings
As symbols of the strongest tie.
And little blades of grass, though small,
All point to life within the earth —
That life, that in this great round ball
Gives spring its sweetest, freshest birth.
A woman's eye is but a bead
Set clear and fair 'neath snowy brow,
And yet it shews the fairest creed
Before which men on earth may bow.
And words are little weakling notes
That vanish like a passing sigh,
And yet they tell our sweetest thoughts,
And have told thoughts that will not die.
So this I send is but a mark
Of grateful thoughts and warm esteem —
Is but a little wav'ring spark
Dropped down from friendship's glowing beam!
