Idle voices do not rise,

For active ears do not prize,

Words that have not got a fire,

Words that make the waking tire.

 

There is no want for passive verses,

Carrying weight like sombre hearses,

There is a need for thoughts attended,

Brought to life like winter’s ended.

 

Then in the springtime flowers bloom,

Out of darkness, out of gloom,

They seize the light that was not there,

Taking energy with none to spare.

 

For if idle flowers did not rise,

Then active eyes would not prize.

 

So words must have a fire,

Words must not make us tire.