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The Heart

Rating: 2.7

There is a cup of sweet or bitter drink,
Whose waters ever o'er the brim must well,
Whence flow pure thoughts of love as angels think,
Or of its dæmon depths the tongue will tell;
That cup can ne'er be cleansed from outward stains
While from within the tide forever flows;
And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains
The treacherous hand on such a task bestows;
But ever bright its chrystal sides appear,
While runs the current from its outlet pure;

And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near,
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