There's a habit I have nurtured, <br />From the sentimental time <br />When my life was like a story, <br />And my heart a happy rhyme,-- <br />Of clipping from the paper, <br />Or magazine, perhaps, <br />The idle songs of dreamers, <br />Which I treasure as my scraps. <br /> <br />They hide among my letters, <br />And they find a cozy nest <br />In the bosom of my wrapper, <br />And the pockets of my vest; <br />They clamber in my fingers <br />Till my dreams of wealth relapse <br />In fairer dreams than Fortune's <br />Though I find them only scraps. <br /> <br />Sometimes I find, in tatters <br />Like a beggar, form as fair <br />As ever gave to Heaven <br />The treasure of a prayer; <br />And words all dim and faded, <br />And obliterate in part, <br />Grow into fadeless meanings <br />That are printed on the heart. <br /> <br />Sometimes a childish jingle <br />Flings an echo, sweet and clear, <br />And thrills me as I listen <br />To the laughs I used to hear; <br />And I catch the gleam of faces, <br />And the glimmer of glad eyes <br />That peep at me expectant <br />O'er the walls of Paradise. <br /> <br />O syllables of measure! <br />Though you wheel yourselves in line, <br />And await the further order <br />Of this eager voice of mine; <br />You are powerless to follow <br />O'er the field my fancy maps, <br />So I lead you back to silence <br />Feeling you are only scraps.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scraps-3/
