A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
End of Number 2 of
The Beguiler; or, The Invalid’s Friend
CXXII
Verena Raby to Evangeline Barrance
My Dear Editor,—Having read your second number I feel so much better that I am confident—to my distress—that a third will not be needed. And yet I should so much like to read many more. I have been moved to become a poet myself and write you a testimonial. After hours of thought in the watches of the night I produced this couplet, which even though it is not worthy to stand beside Pansy’s historical ballads is sincere:—