My Dear Friend,
I join with Lillie in love and earnest good wishes for you as man and writer. Accept the accompanying two sonnets as a birthday welcome.
There are two “William Sharp’s”—one of them unhappy and bitter enough at heart, God knows—though he seldom shows it. This other poor devil also sends you a greeting of his own kind. Tear it up and forget it, if you will.
But sometimes I am very tired—very tired.
Yours ever, my dear Eric,
W. S.
TO ERIC SUTHERLAND ROBERTSON
(On his birthday, 18: 2: 86)
I
Already in the purple-tinted woods
The loud-voiced throstle calls—sweet echoings
Down leafless aisles that dream of bygone springs:
Already towards their northern solitudes