L'envoi: Written on the Fly-Leaf of a Reprint of Some Early Poems

THIS is my Youth, — its hopes and dreams.
How strange and shadowy it all seems,
After these many years !
Turning the pages idly, so,
I look with smiles upon the woe,
Upon the joy with tears !

Go, little Book. The old and wise
Will greet thee with suspicious eyes,
With stare, or furtive frown ;
But here and there some golden maid
May like thee . . . thou ’lt not be afraid
Of young eyes, blue or brown.

To such a one. perchance thou ’It sing
As clearly as a bird in spring
Hailing the apple-blossom ;
And she will let thee make thy nest,
Perhaps, within her snowy breast.
Go ; rest thou in her bosom.