For thee her wooing hour has passed,
The singing birds have flown,

And winter comes with icy blast
To chill thy buds unblown.

Yet, though the woods no longer thrill
As once their arches rung,

1 I find the burden and restrictions of rhyme more and more troublesome as I grow older. There are times when it seems natural enough to employ that form of expression, but it is only occasionally; and the use of it as a vehicle of the commonplace is so prevalent that one is not much tempted to select it as the medium for his thoughts and emotions. The art of rhyming has almost become a part of a high-school education, and its practice is far from being an evidence of intellectual distinction. Mediocrity is as much forbidden to the poet in our days as it was in those of Horace, and the immense majority of the verses written are stamped with hopeless mediocrity. When one of the ancient poets found he was trying to grind out verses which came unwillingly, he said he was writing Invita Minerva. (HOLMES, in Over the Tea-Cups, introducing the poem.)

Where shall she find an eye like thine to

'MY LOVE, I HAVE NO FEAR THAT THOU SHOULDST DIE'

My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die;

Albeit I ask no fairer life than this, Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle kiss,

While Time and Peace with hands enlocked fly;

Yet care I not where in Eternity

We live and love, well knowing that there is No backward step for those who feel the bliss

Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings high:

Love hath so purified my being's core, Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even, To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone before;

Since, with thy love, this knowledge too

(1843.)