PEN AND INK.
I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think,That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen and ink,This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme,The pretty thoughts, and pretty words, that do so softly chime.I know it must be sad for such, as cannot make the verseDash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse,But when the thought is beautiful, and language ain’t amiss,O! tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this.They sadly err and slander too, this lovely world of ours,Who say we gather thorns enough but never gather flowers,—Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome there,And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care?The natural world is full of forms of beauty and delight,The forest leaves are beautiful, there’s beauty in the light;And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind,And says be happy in this world, and fling your cares behind.The mental world is beautiful, and deck’d in beauty rare,Whate’er we see, whate’er we dream, we find it imaged there,—A halo circles all that is, the sprightly and the tame,‘And gives to airy nothings too a dwelling and a name.’And beauty, such as only breathes upon a seraph’s lyre,Is in this world, and comes to us, and gives us souls of fire;We love, and we forget the ills that to the earth belong,And Life becomes one holy dream of rapture and of song.And he who scribbles verses knows (and no one knows but him)That this is but a picture here—a picture dull and dim,—Of that delight which thrills the heart of him, who can ‘in time,’Arrest the thought, and give it word, and twist it into rhyme.And when I sigh and weep—which things will happen, now and then—And I have nought to do but stop, and then begin again;Why then I hie me to my desk, and sit me down and think,And few companions pleasure me, as these—my pen and ink.
I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think,That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen and ink,This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme,The pretty thoughts, and pretty words, that do so softly chime.I know it must be sad for such, as cannot make the verseDash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse,But when the thought is beautiful, and language ain’t amiss,O! tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this.They sadly err and slander too, this lovely world of ours,Who say we gather thorns enough but never gather flowers,—Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome there,And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care?The natural world is full of forms of beauty and delight,The forest leaves are beautiful, there’s beauty in the light;And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind,And says be happy in this world, and fling your cares behind.The mental world is beautiful, and deck’d in beauty rare,Whate’er we see, whate’er we dream, we find it imaged there,—A halo circles all that is, the sprightly and the tame,‘And gives to airy nothings too a dwelling and a name.’And beauty, such as only breathes upon a seraph’s lyre,Is in this world, and comes to us, and gives us souls of fire;We love, and we forget the ills that to the earth belong,And Life becomes one holy dream of rapture and of song.And he who scribbles verses knows (and no one knows but him)That this is but a picture here—a picture dull and dim,—Of that delight which thrills the heart of him, who can ‘in time,’Arrest the thought, and give it word, and twist it into rhyme.And when I sigh and weep—which things will happen, now and then—And I have nought to do but stop, and then begin again;Why then I hie me to my desk, and sit me down and think,And few companions pleasure me, as these—my pen and ink.
I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think,That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen and ink,This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme,The pretty thoughts, and pretty words, that do so softly chime.
I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think,
That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen and ink,
This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme,
The pretty thoughts, and pretty words, that do so softly chime.
I know it must be sad for such, as cannot make the verseDash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse,But when the thought is beautiful, and language ain’t amiss,O! tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this.
I know it must be sad for such, as cannot make the verse
Dash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse,
But when the thought is beautiful, and language ain’t amiss,
O! tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this.
They sadly err and slander too, this lovely world of ours,Who say we gather thorns enough but never gather flowers,—Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome there,And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care?
They sadly err and slander too, this lovely world of ours,
Who say we gather thorns enough but never gather flowers,—
Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome there,
And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care?
The natural world is full of forms of beauty and delight,The forest leaves are beautiful, there’s beauty in the light;And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind,And says be happy in this world, and fling your cares behind.
The natural world is full of forms of beauty and delight,
The forest leaves are beautiful, there’s beauty in the light;
And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind,
And says be happy in this world, and fling your cares behind.
The mental world is beautiful, and deck’d in beauty rare,Whate’er we see, whate’er we dream, we find it imaged there,—A halo circles all that is, the sprightly and the tame,‘And gives to airy nothings too a dwelling and a name.’
The mental world is beautiful, and deck’d in beauty rare,
Whate’er we see, whate’er we dream, we find it imaged there,—
A halo circles all that is, the sprightly and the tame,
‘And gives to airy nothings too a dwelling and a name.’
And beauty, such as only breathes upon a seraph’s lyre,Is in this world, and comes to us, and gives us souls of fire;We love, and we forget the ills that to the earth belong,And Life becomes one holy dream of rapture and of song.
And beauty, such as only breathes upon a seraph’s lyre,
Is in this world, and comes to us, and gives us souls of fire;
We love, and we forget the ills that to the earth belong,
And Life becomes one holy dream of rapture and of song.
And he who scribbles verses knows (and no one knows but him)That this is but a picture here—a picture dull and dim,—Of that delight which thrills the heart of him, who can ‘in time,’Arrest the thought, and give it word, and twist it into rhyme.
And he who scribbles verses knows (and no one knows but him)
That this is but a picture here—a picture dull and dim,—
Of that delight which thrills the heart of him, who can ‘in time,’
Arrest the thought, and give it word, and twist it into rhyme.
And when I sigh and weep—which things will happen, now and then—And I have nought to do but stop, and then begin again;Why then I hie me to my desk, and sit me down and think,And few companions pleasure me, as these—my pen and ink.
And when I sigh and weep—which things will happen, now and then—
And I have nought to do but stop, and then begin again;
Why then I hie me to my desk, and sit me down and think,
And few companions pleasure me, as these—my pen and ink.