Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold (I know it do s) a record of the days When I, a schoolboy, earned your generons prals For halting Terse and stories crudely told? Over these childish scrawls the years hare rolled, They might not know the worlds unfriendly gaie; But still your smile ihines down familiar ways, Touches my words and turns their dross to gold. More dear to-day than in that vanished time Comes your nigh praise to make me proud and strong. In my poor notes yon hear Love ssplendid chime. So unto you does this, my work belong. Take, then, a little gift of fragile rhyme: Your heart will change it to authentic song.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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