At times ill words, professed in haste, Will blur the picture's bordered edge And crisp envisions once encased In hope, can oft become a wedge. The wrangle of a tongue's unrest afflicts contentment, cold with dread. It suckles empty from the breast, To be fulfilled by woe instead.
But words are products of self-pride That often dwell in prig's impart. They won''t encumber what's inside, Or slip the chains from loving hearts. Embattled words do not win wars And can't unchain my heart from yours.