TO F. J. S.

I read, dear friend, in your dear face

Your life's tale told with perfect grace;

The river of your life I trace

Up the sun-chequered, devious bed

To the far-distant fountain-head.

Not one quick beat of your warm heart,

Nor thought that came to you apart,

Pleasure nor pity, love nor pain

Nor sorrow, has gone by in vain;

But as some lone, wood-wandering child

Brings home with him at evening mild

The thorns and flowers of all the wild,

From your whole life, O fair and true,

Your flowers and thorns you bring with you!