Oh, that I could pour out
The longings of my heart,
The secrets of my soul,
The torture of my mind,
All things false or true,
That haunts all of mankind.
Oh, that I could let it flow,
Like a singing - or lamenting - brook.
If I could but find the words,
They would fill a book.
If I could only wield a pen,
As artist uses brush,
I could fill the empty page,
With pictures - made of words.
If I could only find an ear
On whom I could prevail,
That afterwards, could still the tongue,
To repeat no secret tale.
If I could search the whole world over,
I think but few would know,
They only reap the good seed
If that is what they sow.
© Elizabeth Anderson 1976
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