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A traveler on a dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening time, To breathe its early vows; And Age was pleased, in heights of noon, To bask beneath its boughs. The doormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore- It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore. A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern; A passing stranger scooped a well Where weary men might turn. He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle on the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that Toil might drink. He passed again; and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled a thousand parched tongues, And saved a life beside. A nameless man, amid the crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied from the heart, A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath, It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. O seed! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at first, But mighty at the last.                                                             Charles Mackay
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May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
A Song Of Life
A traveler on a dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening time, To breathe its early vows; And Age was pleased, in heights of noon, To bask beneath its boughs. The doormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore- It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore. A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern; A passing stranger scooped a well Where weary men might turn. He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle on the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that Toil might drink. He passed again; and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled a thousand parched tongues, And saved a life beside. A nameless man, amid the crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied from the heart, A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath, It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. O seed! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at first, But mighty at the last.                                                             Charles Mackay
marian
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marian
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
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