Poetry Archives

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt;
  I lull a fancy trouble-tost
  With ‘Love’s too precious to be lost,
A little grain shall not be spilt.’

And in that solace can I sing,
  Till out of painful phases wrought
  There flutters up a happy thought,
Self-balanced on a lightsome wing:

Since we deserved the name of friends,
  And thine effect so lives in me,
  A part of mine may live in thee
And move thee on to noble ends.