Poems (Denver)/Call it not Folly
CALL IT NOT FOLLY.
Call it not folly, if the tongue
Murmurs of old familiar lays,
That oft to ancient harp has sung
The songs of other days.
Their melodies so fill my soul
I cannot treasure every sound;
And, rich in wealth beyond control,
I pass the gift around.
Murmurs of old familiar lays,
That oft to ancient harp has sung
The songs of other days.
Their melodies so fill my soul
I cannot treasure every sound;
And, rich in wealth beyond control,
I pass the gift around.
O say not that I dissipate
My music on the empty air;
There is no spot so desolate
That not one flower is there.
On one heart in its misery
The hopefulness of mine may glow;
So full it is of melody,
'Twill sometimes overflow.
My music on the empty air;
There is no spot so desolate
That not one flower is there.
On one heart in its misery
The hopefulness of mine may glow;
So full it is of melody,
'Twill sometimes overflow.
Think it not folly that my heart
Hath treasured word, and look, and tone,
And kept them silent and apart
From all the world hath known.
They are the silver chords of life,
The heart-strings of affection's lute,
And although silenced by the strife,
Are not forever mute.
Hath treasured word, and look, and tone,
And kept them silent and apart
From all the world hath known.
They are the silver chords of life,
The heart-strings of affection's lute,
And although silenced by the strife,
Are not forever mute.
Then, when so many numbers thrill
My heart with music sweet and low,
No wonder that, like mountain rill,
It swells to overflow!
Deep in its inmost cells they throng,—
Affection's every sainted one,—
Then rise until they burst in song,
And sometimes overrun!
My heart with music sweet and low,
No wonder that, like mountain rill,
It swells to overflow!
Deep in its inmost cells they throng,—
Affection's every sainted one,—
Then rise until they burst in song,
And sometimes overrun!