O, Kindly Speak
The chiding word that chills the flow
Of warm child-feeling, ere it gush
In sparkling jets, to catch the glow
And tinge of Life’s bright morning flush,
Is the human thunder-bolt—its path
Is marked by dwarfed and shrunken minds,
Souls scarred, as trees by lightning scath,
Which show, like them, the spoiler’s lines.