The Eighth Sin/To R. L. S.
TO R. L. S.
Dear R. L. S., whose books each nightWe used to read by candle-light, These many years your body lies Under the blue Samoan skies,But still your words ring warm and bright.
In these poor rhymes, however slight,I fain would tell you, if I might, Your words brought gladness to her eyes, Dear R. L. S.
The magic you knew how to writeEvoked her laughter of delight: With gratitude which rhyme denies Full utterance—do not despise—To You, to Her, I this indite, Dear R. L. S.