Inscribed

TO THE ELECT OF LOVE,--OR SIDE-BY-SIDE IN RAPTEST ECSTASY, OR SUNDERED WIDE BY SEAS THAT BEAR NO MESSAGE TO OR FRO BETWEEN THE LOVED AND LOST OF LONG AGO.

So were I but a minstrel, deft At weaving, with the trembling strings Of my glad harp, the warp and weft Of rondels such as rapture sings,-- I'd loop my lyre across my breast, Nor stay me till my knee found rest In midnight banks of bud and flower Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.

And there, drenched with the teary dews, I'd woo her with such wondrous art As well might stanch the songs that ooze Out of the mockbird's breaking heart; So light, so tender, and so sweet Should be the words I would repeat, Her casement, on my gradual sight, Would blossom as a lily might.