The Pen Poem by Mary Weston Fordham

The Pen



Mightier than the sword thou art,
Thou can'st pierce like venomed dart,
Time and space count naught with thee,
Leagues of land or leagues of sea.

Thou can'st waves of passion calm,
Griefs assuage like Gilead's balm,
Bring sweet pleasure to the eye,
Give sweet gladness for the sigh.

When thy little point is prest,
Oft it wounds some gentle breast,
Filling chalice to the brim,
Darkening life with sorrows grim.

Learned sage in days gone by,
Scanned thee with prophetic eye,
Said to myriads then unborn
Thou would'st rule on many a throne.

Swords may stab with savage ire,
Glistening out like rays of fire,
They can ne'er thy power attain,
O'er the sea or o'er the main.

Mightier than the sword art thou,
Lo! on many a regal brow
Furrows which thy point has wrought,
Troubles which thy work has brought.

Mightier than the sword art thou,
List! a maid records her vow,
That so long as life shall last,
Ne'er a doubt shall love o'ercast.

Naught of bliss or naught of woe,
But thou can'st on man bestow,
With thy tiny pointed prow,
Mightier than the sword art thou.

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