His heart impelled these kind words to a friend—
That full, true heart fast throbbing to its end.
In life neglected, what avails it now,
That men would wreathe the laurel round his brow?
Ah, little dreamed he, as he wrote these lines,
That hearts would beat, to look upon the signs
So careless traced one day, in mood forlorn,
But treasured now, as by the poet born.
H. K. W.