A Dedication To Charlotte Cushman

As Love will carve dear names upon a tree,

Symbol of gravure on his heart to be,

So thought I thine with loving text to set

In the growth and substance of my canzonet;

But, writing it, my tears begin to fall —

This wild-rose stem for thy large name's too small!

Nay, still my trembling hands are fain, are fain

Cut the good letters though they lap again;

Perchance such folk as mark the blur and stain

Will say, `It was the beating of the rain;'

Or, haply these o'er-woundings of the stem

May loose some little balm, to plead for them.