At times without my bidding, my thoughts take shape in rhyme, with a half-unconscious
cadence measure their own sweet time. On thy sweet breezes waft away each low-born
thought of care β bring to our souls sweet thoughts of Heaven. Your inmost soul reveal,
trust me with your lightest fancies nor your deepest thoughts conceal. Yet I find delight
in telling to the unresponsive air thoughts that in my heart are swelling, and some breeze
to you may bear. Should the deep and sacred feeling, when sweet thoughts are oβer us
stealing, every sad remembrance healing, seek for utterance in speech? No! let silence
make still deeper the thoughts no human words can reach. Earth fears no more the
freezing blast. All dark thoughts of gloom and cold fade like a legend old. Our wintry
thoughts fling aside β fresh life to our dead souls bring. Some few broken fragments
reach us when the world is still β when with holy thoughts we our listening spirits fill.
Sweat, Margaret Jane Mussey. Verses. Portland ME: Lakeside Press, 1890. https://archive.org/details/verses00sweagoog/page/n10/mode/1up?q=thoughts