Читать книгу A Few More Verses - Susan Coolidge - Страница 17

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A LITTLE, tender word,

Wrapped in a little rhyme,

Sent out upon the passing air,

As seeds are scattered everywhere

In the sweet summer-time.

A little, idle word,

Breathed in an idle hour;

Between two laughs that word was said,

Forgotten as soon as uttered,

And yet the word had power.

Away they sped, the words:

One, like a wingèd seed,

Lit on a soul which gave it room,

And straight began to bud and bloom

In lovely word and deed.

The other careless word,

Borne on an evil air,

Found a rich soil, and ripened fast

Its rank and poisonous growths, and cast

Fresh seeds to work elsewhere.

The speakers of the words

Passed by and marked, one day,

The fragrant blossoms dewy wet,

The baneful flowers thickly set

In clustering array.

And neither knew his word;

One smiled, and one did sigh.

“How strange and sad,” one said, “it is

People should do such things as this!

I’m glad it was not I.”

And, “What a wondrous word

To reach so far, so high!”

The other said, “What joy ’twould be

To send out words so helpfully!

I wish that it were I.”