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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 though 'unto the listening crowd?
Go take the murmuring sea-shell from the shore—
You have its shape, its color—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.
