FAME.
See, as the prettiest graves will do in time, Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime;Spite of the ***ton's browsing horse, the sods Have struggled through its binding osier rods;Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry, Wanting the brick-work promised by-and-by;How the minute grey lichens, plate o'er plate, Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date!
LOVE.
So, the year's done with (_Love me for ever!_)All March begun with, April's endeavour;
May-wreaths that bound me June needs must sever;Now snows fall round me, Quenching June's fever---(_Love me for ever!_)
