Words

What futile things are words!
But dust of the Desert of Thought,
Blown willy-nilly;
And he who would enslave them,
Marking indelibly the pith of his being
Upon the atoms, must first walk
With bare feet the searing sand of day;
And e'er he catch the dust
Of that magic desert, spill from his heart
A little of its crimson fount,
Else tomorrow's wind shall find
But more dust, yea, more confusion!