Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold (I know it does) a record of the days When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise For halting verse and stories crudely told? Over those childish scrawls the years have rolled. They might not know the worlds unfriendly gaze; But still your smile shines down familiar ways. Touches my words and turns their dross to gold. More dear to-day than in that vanished time Comes your high praise to make me proud and strong. In my poor notes you hear Love ssplendid chime. So unto you does this, my work belong. Take, then, a little gift of fragile rhyme: Ycur 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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