  I wrote a letter from my heart, Aglow with pain and passion, In angry words and sudden start Of pity and compassion. The thing was done in utmost haste, The pen inclined to caper, I count it now an awful waste Of rather decent paper. And when the thing, I had achieved, Was folded in my pocket, My soul felt wondrously relieved, Spent, like a fiery rocket. When I did think of sending it, I made a vague decision, That it should wait a little bit, Ere going on its mission. It waited one, it waited two And three days for the mailing, And on the fourth myself did go Where it was sure of failing. Upon our journey did we cross A stream of gentle flowing, Where I impulsively did toss, Against the breezes blowing,— The letter torn to smithereens, Like snowflakes slow descending, Received by lambent hyalines And current gaily wending. Thus on the river’s peaceful breast My words of pain were carried, Some swiftly with the stream’s unrest, And some did longer tarry. And to the sea may be they sailed, Where ocean swells are moaning, Where life’s great agony is wailed Mid nature’s endless groaning. Though nought is lost, yet it is well To let the fiery letter Find such a fate, for it will quell Things that destroy the better. And this advice I freely give: Write down your spirit’s frowning, For three days let it lonely live, Then kill it all by drowning. |
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