Whose words and looks will, circling, flee
Round me and round while life endures,—
Could I fancy "As I feel, thus feels He;"
Why, fade you might to a thing like me,
And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair,
Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree,—
You might turn myself!—should I know or care,
When I should be dead of joy, James Lee?
GOLD HAIR
A STORY OF PORNIC