The Poem

A string of words is a dangerous thing,
For no man knows where it will stop
Save he take up the strands, and following,
Discover its end, or read till he drop.

Unfurled on the page lay the poem before him,
Inviting him in with its ink-lettered glory,
Calling him sweetly to read of its verses--
(Oh, the innocent lure of those letters!)
So he took it up slowly; and the tugging words caught him
And carried him on, like a stream rolling swiftly
In its widening course, ever deeper and stronger,
O'er difficult passages, from line to line leaping,
Ceaselessly flowing from its source to the sea:
Then he stood at the prow of his vessel of thought
On an ocean of language, and the surging waves
Bore him up higher and higher, till breathless
He clung to a lifeline of thought--and the billows
Upswelled to a toppling summit, and he saw
Through the spindrift a deepening valley--
(And the sea bore him on, while the wind sang past)--
Then he fell from his boat and was tumbled by currents
Under words, over words, eddying round him,
Till they caught him and tossed him and sucked him down under
And he drowned in the plunging word-swell of the sea.

For a string of words is a dangerous thing,
And no man knows where it will stop
Save he take up the strands, and following,
Discover its end, or read till he drop.