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.
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.
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.
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!