 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
9
DEDICATION.
SAND AND THE BAYS.
I
She crowned my hair with sand; I wonder willShe ever twine her hand amid the bays,
And ever render unto me the praise
Without which all men's praise, alas, is nil,
But which is potent by itself to fill
To the full the flowing current of my days:
Was it an omen for my future lays,
An evil omen, that she chose to spill,
And twine amid my locks a sandy wreath?
Have I, in fact, as Keats in humble thought
Deemed that in water he his name had wrought,
To shifting sand of poetry made bequeath;
And will the foamy, white, advancing teeth
Of Time bring both myself and mine to nought?
10
II
Will she be favourable? she, who crowned with sandMy head, too happy to be touched at all
By what her hand had touched to care to call
Out, “Stay, sweet, choose a less ill-omened band
Wherewith to bind my brow.” I seem to stand
Before her, yea, before my Queen alone,
And into nothingness the world is thrown
For the time, and only two possess the land;
I offer her my book; I think that she
Will smile to recognize a flower or two
We plucked together, set in frame-work new,
And many buds and blossoms she will see
Unseen before, and leaflets not a few,
And will she, think you, cast a glance on me?
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