It seems to me that talk should be, Like water, sprinkled sparingly; Then ground that late lay dull and dried Smiles up at you revivified, And flowers—of speech—touched by the dew Put forth fresh root and bud anew. But I'm not sure that any flower Would thrive beneath Niagara's shower! So when a friend turns full on me His verbal hose, may I not flee? I know that I am arid ground, But I'm not watered—Gad! I'm drowned!