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SONNET To F. B.
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47

SONNET To F. B.

Is all the world against thee? Then am I
Quite for thee, though I bitterly condemn
The sin that justifies their spite to them,
And drains the wells of thy fair spirit dry.
It is an English poet's part to die
For English womanhood at utter need:
My spirit, all on fire to intercede
For thy bruised spirit, hovers gently nigh.
What is it worth, the gift of praise men bring
To me the poet, while thou art in grief?
Lo! for thy sake I tear my laurel-leaf
And hush to solemn notes the lips that sing.
May God forgive me for those shameful hours,
When thou wast crowned with thorns, and I with flowers!
July, 1876.