Poison and daggers, branding irons, whips,

Arrows and angry snakes, are nothing much.

But casual words that fall from human lips

Terribly wound the friendly names they touch.

Who utters words like these? Myself; and you;

You, too; and not with murderous intent,

Not angry. Merely talking, as we do,

Of who was there, and what they said, and meant.

How can they hurt so much, so lightly said?

An evil angel likes to see our words

Feathered with wit, released, and sharply sped.

This angel somehow changes words we speak

Till news in the telling tears with claw and beak,

And hovers again to strike like hunting-birds.