Twas nothing—a mere idle word,1
From careless lips that fell,2
Forgot, perhaps, as soon as said,3
And purposeless as well.4
But yet, as on the passing wind5
Is borne the little seed,6
Which blooms unheeded, as a flower,7
Or as a noisome weed8
So often will a single word,9
Unknown, its end fulfil,10
And bear, in seed, the flower and fruit11
Of actions good or ill.12