The Word

The word comes to the hand unsought,
Bright-plumaged out of empty air;
But mind must toil to shape the thought.


Such timid creatures are not caught
In sudden noose or cunning snare;
Though word comes to the hand unsought.


No artful sun has ever taught
The rose to prove her perfume rare,
But mind must toil to shape the thought.


Green emerald's fire may not be bought,
Though lamp illumine night's despair;
The word comes to the mind unsought.


The jeweller's vision subtly wrought
To artlessness,lights hours of care;
As mind must toil to shape the thought.


Shaped rose and stone together brought,
Both in bright sunlight rightly share;
The word comes to the hand unsought,
But mind must toil to shape the thought.




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