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One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
came the tide and made my pains his prey.

Still must the poet as of old,
In barren attic bleak and cold,
Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to
Such things as flowers and song and you.

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink again;

Ah, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young Desire!
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach Love’s fire!

Good-bye! a kind good-bye,
I bid you now, my friend,
And though ’tis sad to speak the word,
To destiny I bend

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Maid of my love! sweet Genevieve!
In beauty’s light you glide along;
Your eye is like the star of eve,
And sweet your voice, as seraph’s song.

I found a few old letters of mine carefully hidden in thy box—a few small toys for thy memory to play with.

By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world.
But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs,
and thou keepest me free.