by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Oh, you who read some song that I have sung --
What know you of the soul from whence it sprung?
Dost dream the poet ever speaks aloud
His secret thought unto the listening crowd?
Go take the murmuring sea-shell from the shore --
You have it's shape, its colour - and no more.
It tells not one of those vast mysteries
That lie beneath the surface of the seas.
Our songs are shells, cast out by waves of thought;
Here, Take them at your pleasure; but think not
You've seen beneath the surface of the waves,
Where lie our shipwrecks, and our coral caves.
Source:Poems of Ella Wheeler Wilcox
W.P. Nimmo, Hay, and Mitchell, Edinburgh