Whisper as thou wavest by,
Beauty's light like thine will die
If she waste its bloom divine
On the idlers round her shrine;
Warn her that her spirit's wing
Be not ever fluttering;
For if that should break, or show
Lightest shade upon its snow,
Lives no mortal artisan
That can make it bright again!
Tears may bathe the broken plume,
Sighs may mourn its early doom—
Only may it hope for rest
Folded on the Father's breast.
Beauty's light like thine will die
If she waste its bloom divine
On the idlers round her shrine;
Warn her that her spirit's wing
Be not ever fluttering;
For if that should break, or show
Lightest shade upon its snow,
Lives no mortal artisan
That can make it bright again!
Tears may bathe the broken plume,
Sighs may mourn its early doom—
Only may it hope for rest
Folded on the Father's breast.
So, fair spirit, wave thy wing,
And my message softly sing!
"Do thy spiriting gently" there,
Lest thou wound a soul so rare,
And be this the warning dear
Murmur'd in her ivory ear—
And my message softly sing!
"Do thy spiriting gently" there,
Lest thou wound a soul so rare,
And be this the warning dear
Murmur'd in her ivory ear—
Lovely lady, have a care!
Words are more than idle air,
Words are more than idle air,
