AT Reigate, underneath the trees,
The autumn ferns were crisped with brown;
And, fluttering on a fitful breeze,
The autumn-leaves came softly down.
As underneath a tree we stopped,
An ornament of gold I dropped,--
Searched for in vain by wistful eyes;
For there until this hour it lies
Beneath some curving fern.
Winter will bury it with leaves,
And if some future spring upheaves
A golden blossom on the sprout,
A fallen acorn then puts out

My little gem, obscured so long,
May wake a wandering poet's song,
Who, heedless of his steps, may pass,
And there, amidst the tangled grass,
Its shining may discern.

Just so some little word may fall
From some one lip, forgot by all;
Buried beneath a thousand days,
While every season overlays
Its freshness more and more.
At length some thought, profound and slow,
Within the public heart shall grow,
Such life and force from many a pen,
And shape its inner life for men,
Who add it to their store.
And when its breathing depths are stirred,
Lo! in its bosom--lies the word!