I
Say now, Horatio, has language hours?
Sleeps it awhile, to wake again renewed,
As chrysalids pupate the many-hued?
Or does it, man-like, mellow ageing powers?
Sometime, I think, language like time devours
The end to which it moved in early mood,
Or wills to utterance a stranger brood,
As flowers are changed to seed, and seed to flowers.
So this raw speech of ours in use today,
Crude as new must, time-ripened may seem fine
As anything we heard great Sidney say,
Or Shakespeare plunder from the Muses nine,
And some far future find within this pack
All that these few poor words, so halting, lack.
II
Flower turns to seed, and seed becomes a flower;
One seed makes many flowers, one flower much seed!
Thus from a word does mighty thinking breed,
And simple thoughts, to great, increase the dower.
Are not all words old thought new-set to power—
Late visible where we, late-come, may read,
To lose by them the low place of the weed,
And climb, where, if unlearned, we still must cower?
Speak not of history in stone! For I
Can show you history written deeper yet;
The simple words nor youth nor age forget,
Passed lip to lip, as centuries go by;
The caravans of time these leave behind—
Shards from which man makes ladders for the mind.
(Dame Mary Gilmore DBE)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Mind Poems, Time Poems, Flowers Poems, Speaking Poems, Weeds Poems, History Poems, Language PoemsBased on Keywords: unlearned, ageing, caravans, power-, many-hued, behind-, horatio, man-like, new-set, chrysalids, time-ripened