A Postlude

If only in your life to live, might I Perchance those broken chords with my own meet, Though quite imperfect, yet but thus to try Were oh, so wondrous sweet.

Not the broad high-roads which you would have trod, A lonely wanderer these may not essay, Still, spirit mine, the by-paths that I plod Do lead the selfsame way.

And if a little part I should fulfil Of those fair deeds which you hoped to pursue— Oh, how content to walk the miles until I reach my home and you.