Nor are its mysteries among The hidden things of art; A tyro on life's winding road Reads understandingly Each tone and word, each varied mode The tongue and form portray. Our heart's intents are from our looks More plainly to be read, Than thoughts expressed in printed books Whose language oft seems dead, [Pg 17] Because it lacks a living form— A voiceless, dull decree That of itself has little charm For youth's activity. A potent charm of living light Flows with resistless force, Dispelling clouds of mental night That meet its onward course, When all the soul is centred in
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