HOW hardly doth the cold and careless world

Requite the toil divine of genius-souls,

Their wasting cares and agonizing throes!

I had a friend, a sweet and precious friend,

One passing rich in all the strange and rare,

And fearful gifts of song.

On one great work,

A poem in twelve cantos, she had toiled

From early girlhood, e’en till she became

An olden maid.