Page:The Garden of Years.djvu/51



For this the curse of those that tempt the pen:—

Where thousands read, one eye may never see

The thoughts that are but lifeless creatures, when

Taken into the myriad hearts of men,

If one intended ear heed not the plea.

What though I knew that, in mine own degree,

I had made lips to laugh and eyes to weep?

Rather that one unworthy word from me

Within your heart should sleep, and wake, and sleep:—

All I have done were worth the labor then.

Heart of my heart, what all the world may do

To blot my name or keep its memory green

Is naught. I crave not to be of the few

Who, unforgotten, thread the ages through

And lordlier laurels with each cycle glean.

Grant me but this, whereon my life may lean:

As once I saw you in your bonny way

Your mirror kiss, that stood two flowers between,

Let these, my pages, the reflector play,

And kiss again what mirrors only you!