A Birthday Book oh, you who read some song that I have sung. What know you of the soul from whence it sprung? Dost dream the poet ever speaks aloud. His secret thought unto the listening crowd? Go take the murmuring sea shell from the shore. You have its shape, its color and no more. It tells not one of those vast mysteries. That lie beneath the surface of the seas. Our songs are shells, cast out by waves of thought. Here, take them at your pleasure; but think not. You've seen beneath the surface of the waves.
