122
TO MARY BOYLE
xv.
The silver year should cease to mourn and sigh—
Not long to wait—
So close are we, dear Mary, you and I
To that dim gate.
The silver year should cease to mourn and sigh—
Not long to wait—
So close are we, dear Mary, you and I
To that dim gate.
xvi.
Take, read! and be the faults your Poet makes
Or many or few,
He rests content, if his young music wakes
A wish in you
Take, read! and be the faults your Poet makes
Or many or few,
He rests content, if his young music wakes
A wish in you
xvii.
To change our dark Queen-city, all her realm
Of sound and smoke,
For his clear heaven, and these few lanes of elm
And whispering oak.
To change our dark Queen-city, all her realm
Of sound and smoke,
For his clear heaven, and these few lanes of elm
And whispering oak.
