Poems (Cromwell)/Words
For works with similar titles, see Words.
WORDS
Words are the stones I use in building,
My house will be strong without fillet or gilding;
I dig in the crypt of the centuries
Where the earth is rich in ebonies.
I burrow for words in the quarry of time,
In the heart of the ancient hills for rhyme.
My house will be strong without fillet or gilding;
I dig in the crypt of the centuries
Where the earth is rich in ebonies.
I burrow for words in the quarry of time,
In the heart of the ancient hills for rhyme.
There are veins of Beauty the sages have known:
Milton worked where the marble shone;
Our Lincoln found what he liked in the clay
Of the common fields where the stones are grey.
So every spirit must find a way
And delve for the treasure that seems its own.
Milton worked where the marble shone;
Our Lincoln found what he liked in the clay
Of the common fields where the stones are grey.
So every spirit must find a way
And delve for the treasure that seems its own.
But you! what are words, what are words to you!
Not shone nor metal precious and true,
Nor blocks to serve in a hallowed shrine,
But seductive jewels cut subtle and fine,
Spangles you wear to glitter and shine;
I know the worth of your words to you!
Not shone nor metal precious and true,
Nor blocks to serve in a hallowed shrine,
But seductive jewels cut subtle and fine,
Spangles you wear to glitter and shine;
I know the worth of your words to you!