Fine Talk

They may talk about talk With a silvery ring, But silence is sometimes An excellent thing. Of course there’s no statute To limit the breath, And he that so chooses May talk you to death! But if you have nothing To tell or to teach, There’s no use abusing The good gift of speech!

I’ve heard tongues that clattered Like shallowest brooks, But never the fine talk You read of in books! I often hear things That were tolerably good, But not your fine, fine talk,— I wish that I could! For when words like music Have ravished the air, It somehow has happened I never was there.

It is, as I fancy, The fault of my star, For certainly somewhere Fine talkers there are; And sometimes I’ve thought, For a minute or two, Here is one! He was telling me All that he knew! For when we next met, Without switching the train Of a thought, he repeated The same things again.

And if I might venture One word to suggest To the talkers, who brilliantly Prey on the rest, I would tell them that no So far as I’ve heard, Likes always to listen And say not a word; And that it were wisdom To ponder my rhyme, And utter their oracles One at a time!