  M Many a lovely dream a poet might Weave into fancies round thy lovely name, Sweetheart; yet I, who surely have no claim To be a poet,—(save the holy right Love gives me to write poems at the sight Of a young face whose eager brightness came As part of life’s best gift to me,—) can frame No fitter reason why in such delight I hold the one sweet syllable, than this: Not for its visions of the field or wood, But for its wealth of possibilities; Its hint of undefined, ideal good, Suggesting all thy soul can scarcely miss, |
|
