Page:The eighth sin (IA eighthsin00morlrich).pdf/15



O you I sing. To you alone These rhymes in no uncertain tone
 * A message bring. Let others hint
 * They are not worth the ink to print—

Of others I am heedless grown.

Chilled by the bookshop's frigid zone These rhymes in haste to you have flown,
 * Fleeing the critic's heart of flint
 * To you they sing.

I have no fear lest you postpone Your gentle judgement. I have known
 * Your gracious favour has no stint,
 * You'll say (your cheek a rosier tint),

"I like them, for they are his own"—
 * To you I sing.