I
Words are the stranded foam the sea-winds blew,
Or bloom-snow falling in the springing weeks;
Unless the character of him who speaks
Stand out, behind the words, as good and true!
II
Words are but feathers, bright or black or grey,
Upon the small winds' fingers borne and lost;
But actions are the great rocks—tempest cross'd,
Though fretted by a million storms, they stay.
William Wilsey Martin
