Brought by a hand that is pure as the air.
For I alone of all the sons of men
Hear thy pure accents, answering thee again.
And may I reach the goal of life as I began the race,
Blest by the music of thy voice, though darkness ever veil thy face!




ON A CRUSHED HAT


Brown was my friend, and faithful--but so fat!
He came to see me in the twilight dim;
I rose politely and invited him
To take a seat--how heavily he sat!

He sat upon the sofa, where my hat,
My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim;
Its build, unlike my friend's, was rather slim,
And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.

O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye,
Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown,
And I shall never wear thee any more;
Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie,
And with the years the dust will settle down
On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!