He sleeps: all round his cosy cell
His long-stored gifts are waiting use;
And—till awaked—he there doth dwell,
A cosy form in cosy snooze.
THE ARRIVAL.
All precious things, discovered late,
To those who seek them turn up trumps.
Charity works with kindly fate,
The heart in her soft bosom thumps.
She travels under winter skies—