Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/97



her who, cast with me in trying days,

Stood in the place of health and power and praise;

Who, when I thought all light was out, became

A lamp of hope that put my fears to shame;

Who faced for love's sole sake the life austere

That waits upon the man of letters here;

Who, unawares, her deep affection showed

By many a touching little wifely mode;

Whose spirit, self-denying, dear, divine,

Its sorrows hid, so it might lessen mine—

To her, my bright, best friend, I dedicate

This book of songs—'t will help to compensate

For much neglect. The act, if not the rhyme,

Will touch her heart, and lead her to the time

Of trials past. That which is most intense

Within these leaves is of her influence;

And if aught here is sweetened with a tone

Sincere, like love, it came of love alone.

once to take my pen and write,

Not songs, like some, tormented and awry

With passion, but a cunning harmony

Of words and music caught from glen and height,

And lucid colours born of woodland light

And shining places where the sea-streams lie.

But this was when the heat of youth glowed white,

And since I've put the faded purpose by.

I have no faultless fruits to offer you

Who read this book; but certain syllables

Herein are borrowed from unfooted dells

And secret hollows dear to noontide dew;

And these at least, though far between and few,

May catch the sense like subtle forest spells.