Page:The eighth sin (IA eighthsin00morlrich).pdf/56



R. L. S., whose books each night We used to read by candle-light,
 * These many years your body lies
 * Under the blue Samoan skies,

But still your words ring warm and bright.

In these poor rhymes, however slight, I fain would tell you, if I might,
 * Your words brought gladness to her eyes,
 * Dear R. L. S.

The magic you knew how to write Evoked her laughter of delight:
 * With gratitude which rhyme denies
 * Full utterance—do not despise—

To You, to Her, I this indite,
 * Dear R. L. S.