Page:Hand in hand; (IA handinhand00kipl).pdf/115



'VE a box of my own, for myself, and no one has the key, It is filled with the trifles that matter, and thoughts without end; With the loves I have lost, and the joys that were taken from me, And there, in a pile, are the letters I never shall send.

There are letters to you, and there's many a letter to him, Full of fancies forgotten, and follies once dear to a friend, I look at them seldom, but always with eyes that are dim, And I dare not re-read them, the letters I never shall send.

I wish I had sent them, for life might have given me much, Which now is denied, had I had but the courage to spend,