Page:The town down the river; a book of poems.djvu/48

 You shake it off and wish me joy of it? Laurel from every place, Laurel, but not the rest? Such are the words in you that I divine, Such are the words of men. So be it, and what then? Poor, tottering counterfeit, Are you a thing to tell me what is mine?

Grant we the demon sees An inch beyond the line, What comes of mine and thine? A thousand here and there may shriek and freeze, Or they may starve in fine. The Old Physician has a crimson cure For such as these, And ages after ages will endure