LITTLE ENOUGH THERE IS OF WORTH
Little enough there is of worth
On this green ball of earth:
Wind in a hemlock-tree, to shake
A cool wet music from the brake . . .
Flame in an earthen bowl
To warm a frozen soul
And cheer a heart grown chill
With solitude and ill . . .
And water in a rill,
Rimmed round with moss that drips
Upon the rock, until it fashions
A goblet for hot lips,
A cup for futile passions.
On this green ball of earth:
Wind in a hemlock-tree, to shake
A cool wet music from the brake . . .
Flame in an earthen bowl
To warm a frozen soul
And cheer a heart grown chill
With solitude and ill . . .
And water in a rill,
Rimmed round with moss that drips
Upon the rock, until it fashions
A goblet for hot lips,
A cup for futile passions.
And when the high heart is broken,
The last word spoken,
And tears are many as the dew,—
The fragmentary dreams
Of beauty that the world discloses
The last word spoken,
And tears are many as the dew,—
The fragmentary dreams
Of beauty that the world discloses
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