"THY praise sounds cold, indeed, to me
Thou friend, that ever, smilingly,
Dost read the paltry words that free
My petty thoughts in minstrelsy."
Just good enough to please a friend
With the mere artifice of verse;
Just bad enough in one to blend
A pleasure slight, a mighty curse, -
My little songs fly forth to die,
Like insects frail that live a day;
And yet my soul doth ever sigh
Its secret thoughts once more to say.
For when I see the mountains stand,
Snow-capped in silent majesty,
I cannot sit with idle hand,
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Undergraduate Literary Exercises in Sanders Theatre.