by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
An unkind tale was whispered in his ear.
He paused to hear.
His thoughts were food that helped a falsehood thrive,
And keep alive.
Years dawned and died. One day by venom’s tongue
His name was stung.
He cried aloud, nor dreamed the lie was spawn
Of thoughts long gone.
Each mental wave we send out from the mind,
Or base, or kind,
Completes its circuit, then with added force
Seeks its own source.
|from Poems of Progress and New Thought Pastels by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1913)|
|His Mansion||Three Things|