Hawthorn and Lavender
Publisher Description
These dreams of a futile stage, These thumb nails seen in the street : Ask me not how nor why, But take them for your own, Dear Wife of twenty years, Knowing O, who so well ? You it was made the man That made these songs of love, Death, and the trivial rest : So that, your love elsewhere, These songs, or bad or good How should they ever have been.