  THERE are hearts and hearts—Some like specimens fine Of rare old china of classic design; We find them when least we expect them in store, In pawn-broker shop, and in dainty boudoir. Oh those delicate hearts, full of love’s priceless wine, In their beauty and fulness of grace half divine; When cherished with reverent caring, they stand; Or lie shattered at touch of the World’s ruthless hand. There are hearts and hearts—Some as strong and as pure As the thrice-heated metal in yon golden ewer; Within them may seethe the wild passions of time, E’en passion in such hearts must needs grow sublime. Love may falter—then duty shall stand in its place; Ease vanish—stern action must win in the race; Earth’s sorrows o’erwhelm—life’s tempests sweep by— The Soul’s beacon light still gleams brightly on high! There are hearts and hearts—Some like commoner clay, Of necessity chosen for use every day By those in whose hard lives the gold would grow dim, And the Sevres unfit for the draught at its brim. But the Potter—He knoweth! He fashioned each one, His the care for the vessel, the final “Well done”— Nor fineness of texture, nor beauty, nor grace, But fitness for service, determines its place. |
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