’Tis but a box, of modest deal;
Directed to no matter where:
Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal—
Yes, I am blubbering like a seal;
For on it is this mute appeal,
“With care.”

I am a stern cold man, and range
Apart: but those vague words “With care”
Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange:
Drawn from my moral Moated Grange,
I feel I rather like the change
Of air.

Hast thou ne’er seen rough pointsmen spy
Some simple English phrase—“With care”
Or “This side uppermost”—and cry
Like children? No? No more have I.
Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry
A bear.

But ah! what treasure hides beneath
That lid so much the worse for wear?
A ring perhaps—a rosy wreath—
A photograph by Vernon Heath—
Some matron’s temporary teeth
Or hair!

Perhaps some seaman, in Peru
Or Ind, hath stow’d herein a rare
Cargo of birds’ eggs for his Sue;
With many a vow that he’ll be true,
And many a hint that she is too,
Too fair.

Perhaps—but wherefore vainly pry
Into the page that’s folded there?
I shall be better by and by:
The porters, as I sit and sigh,
Pass and repass—I wonder why
They stare!