TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER.
Paper, inviolate, white,
Shall it be joy or pain?
Shall I of fate complain,
Or shall I laugh to-night?
Shall it be hopes that are bright?
Shall it be hopes that are vain?
Paper, inviolate, white,
Shall it be joy or pain?
A dear little hand so light,
A moment in mine hath lain;
Kind was its pressure again—
Ah, but it was so slight!
Paper, inviolate, white,
Shall it be joy or pain?
Cosmo Monkhouse.