My Song

I sang me a song, a tiny song, A song that was sweet to my soul, And set it a-float on the sea of chance In search of a happy goal. I said to my song: “Go on, go on And lodge in a tender spot Of some human soul where the fires of hate And selfishness are not.” My song went on but a little space And hied it back to me; And fell at my feet in a sorry plight— The victim of cruelty. I gazed a moment and quickly saw Just how it had come about, A cruel critic had caught my song And probed the soul of it out. O, poor indeed is the human mind (And why was it ever wrought?) That can thrive on husk in the form of words, And not on a sturdy thought.