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| O ye who trace through scattered verse the sound Of those long sighs wherewith I fed my heart Amid youth’s errors, when in greater part That man unlike this present man was found; For the mixed strain which here I do compound Of empty hopes and pains that vainly start, Whatever soul hath truly felt love’s smart, With pity and with pardon will abound. But now I see full well how long I earned All men’s reproof; and oftentimes my soul Lies crushed by its own grief; and it doth seem For such misdeed shame is the fruitage whole, And wild repentance and the knowledge learned That worldly joy is still a short, short dream. |
FOUR HUNDRED AND THIRTY COPIES
PRINTED AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS
CAMBRIDGE, IN THE MONTH OF SEPTEMBER,
MDCCCCIII. NUMBER 426
