A weary work of tongue and pen,
A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men,
Thou wilt not chide my turning
To con, at times, an idle rhyme,
To pluck a flower from childhood's clime,
Or listen at life's noonday chime,
For the sweet bells of Morning!
EUGÉNIE DE GUÉRIN.
We had the self-same world enlarged for each,
By loving difference of girl and boy.