 | Poems (1872) |  |
241
THE TOKEN.
Send me some tokens, that my hope may live,Or that my easeless thoughts may sleep and rest;
Send me some hony, to make sweet my hive,
That in my passions I may hope the best.
I beg nor ribbon wrought with thy own hands,
To knit our loves in the fantastic strain
Of new-touch'd youth; nor ring to show the stands
Of our affection, that, as that's round and plain,
So should our loves meet in simplicity;
No, nor the corals which thy wrist infold,
Laced up together in congruity,
To show our thoughts should rest in the same hold;
242
And most desired, 'cause 'tis like the best;
Nor witty lines, which are most copious,
Within the writings which thou hast addrest.
Send me nor this, nor that, t' increase my score;
But swear thou think'st I love thee, and no more.
| Poems (1872) | |