Scraps

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