WITH A BOOK OF VERSE
TAKE once more what is yours: since it is mine
'T is surely yours! If it have aught
Of value, yours the praise.—Let not the wine
Deny the grape! Its lucent ruby bright
Is but the lingering of the stored sunlight
That dwelt in the grape's heart and ripened there
Through the long summer days when cold and care
And parting were unknown—and, O my friend!
In sending you my book, your own I send.
