Poems (Howard)/An Episode
An Episode.
Like treasure-trove, within a chest For years it lay securely hid, Till busy hands, one day possessed Of leave to raise the ponderous lid, 'Mong other relics quickly caught This old memento, half-forgot.
Time-tinted 't was, and redolent: As if its hiding-place had been A chaliced flower, diffusing scent As sweet as rose or jessamine—But I remember, now I think, 'T was that delicious violet ink!
Of all refined dulciloquy Expressed in that "first valentine"—No wonder that it seemed to me, In greener years, almost divine, As I read on with bated breath, The loyal ending—"Yours, till death."
An artist in his native land, His skill acknowledged far and wide, With fame and wealth at his command— What boon before had been denied To him who had the missive penned, And craved a dearer name than friend?
Who would have thought it? Cousin Fay! The revelation was a blow That almost took my breath away— I pitied him—'twas years ago—He's living yet. Can Earth impart No solace to his broken heart? A letter from a friend since then My kinsman Raphael depicts Wrapped up—oh, paradox of men! In his sweet wife and children six; And so for him no more I sigh—If one needs pity, do not I?