“The quay recedes. Hurrah! Ahead we go! . . .
It’s true I’ve been accustomed now to home,
And joints get rusty, and one’s limbs may grow
More fit to rest than roam.
“But I can stand as yet fair stress and strain;
There’s not a little steel beneath the rust;
My years mount somewhat, but here’s to’t again!
And if I fall, I must.
“though your sorrows not
any tongue may name,
three i’ll give you sweet
joys for each of them
But it must be your”
whispers that flower
murmurs eager this
“i will give you five
hopes for any fear,
but it Must be your”
perfectly alive
blossom of a bliss
“seven heavens for
just one dying, i’ll
give you” silently
cries the (whom we call
rose a) mystery
“but it must be Your”
