Thine is a word no longer
ours; it is Thine.
Together with many a finer sense
wrapped up into parcels
of syllable,
and posted
into eternity, lost
in consequence of refinement,
of evolution, never to think
of cost. In old yellow books
- how they could talk! Like angels
of eloquence, listening. Apprehensive
a bit - as angels are, but in vain
- for the words were like flowers
arranged, each blossom and bulb
pregnant with meaning, and glistening.
They knew secrets then, and spoke in them.
As the years passed through, word by word
they fell. They knew them no longer, as they passed
out of habit and daily use, and this usage
- brutally cruel! Made strangers
of beautiful words.
They were no longer theirs,
and they never were ours,
so we leave them to you.
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