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Rh Just so for ever, sweetest friend,’ he said, ‘My failure would seem better than success. And yet, indeed, your book has dealt with me More gently, cousin, than you ever will! The book brought down entire the bright June-day, And set me wandering in the garden-walks, And let me watch the garland in a place, You blushed so. . nay, forgive me; do not stir: I only thank the book for what it taught, And what, permitted. Poet, doubt yourself; But never doubt that you’re a poet to me From henceforth. Ah, you’ve written poems, sweet, Which moved me in secret as the sap is moved In still March branches, signless as a stone: But this last book o’ercame me like soft rain Which falls at midnight, when the tightened bark Breaks out into unhesitating buds, And sudden protestations of the spring. In all your other books I saw but you: A man may see the moon so, in a pond, And not the nearer therefore to the moon, Nor use the sight. . except to drown himself And so I forced my heart back from the sigh For what had I, I thought, to do with her,— Aurora. . Romney? But, in this last book, You showed me something separate from yourself, Beyond you; and I bore to take it in, And let it draw me. You have shown me truths, O June-day friend, that help me now at night, When June is over! truths not yours, indeed,