Some words are played on golden strings,Which I so highly rate,I cannot bear for meaner things Their sound to desecrate.
For every day they are not meet,Or for a careless tone;They are for rarest,and most sweet,And noblest use alone.
One word is POET:which is flung So carelessly away,When such as you and I have sung,We hear it,day by day.
Men pay it for a tender phrase Set in a cadenced rhyme:I keep it as a crown of praise To crown the kings of time.
And LOVE:the slightest feelings,stirred By trivial fancy,seek Expression in that golden word They tarnish while they speak.
Nay,let the heart's slow,rare decree,That word in reverence keep Silence herself should only be More sacred and more deep.
FOR EVER:men have grown at length To use that word,to raise Some feeble protest into strength,Or turn some tender phrase.
It should be said in awe and fear By true heart and strong will,And burn more brightly year by year,A starry witness still.
HONOUR:all trifling hearts are fond Of that divine appeal,And men,upon the slightest bond,Set it as slighter seal.
That word should meet a noble foe Upon a noble field,And echo--like a deadly blow Turned by a silver shield.
Trust me,the worth of words is such They guard all noble things,And that this rash irreverent touch Has jarred some golden strings.
For what the lips have lightly said The heart will lightly hold,And things on which we daily tread Are lightly bought and sold.
The sun of every day will bleach The costliest purple hue.And so our common daily speech Discolours what was true.
But as you keep some thoughts apart In sacred honoured care,If in the silence of your heart,Their utterance too be rare;
Then,while a thousand words repeat Unmeaning clamours all,Melodious golden echoes sweet Shall answer when you call.
