So I am sure she 'll not refuse
To visit me.
TO E. H. K.
ON THE RECEIPT OF A FAMILIAR POEM
To me, like hauntings of a vagrant breath
From some far forest which I once have known,
The perfume of this flower of verse is blown.
Tho' seemingly soul-blossoms faint to death,
Naught that with joy she bears e'er withereth.
So, tho' the pregnant years have come and flown,