We know not what mysterious power
Lies latent in our words and deeds,—
Sweet as the perfume of a flower,
Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds;
But something certainly survives
The passing of our fleeting lives.

A look, a pressure of the hand,
A sign of hope, a song of cheer,
May journey over sea and land,
Outliving many a sterile year,
To find at last the destined hour
When they shall leap to bud and flower.

We write, we print, then—nevermore
To be recalled—our thoughts take flight,
Like white-winged birds that leave the shore,
And scattering, lose themselves in light;
For good or ill those words may be
The arbiters of destiny.

Perchance some fervid plea may find
A heart to rise to its appeal;
Some statement rouse a dormant mind,
Or stir a spirit, quick to feel;
Nay, through some note of gentler tone
Even love may recognize its own.

Fain would I deem not wholly dead
The spoken words of former years,
And every printed page, when read,
A source of smiles, instead of tears;
That friends, whom I shall never see,
May, for a time, remember me.