169

In Ebon Box, when years have flown
To reverently peer,
Wiping away the velvet dust
Summers have sprinkled there!

To hold a letter to the light-
Grown Tawny now, with time-
To con the faded syllables
That quickened us like Wine!

Perhaps a Flower's shrivelled check
Among its stores to find-
Plucked far away, some morning-
By gallant-mouldering hand!

A curl, perhaps, from foreheads
Our Constancy forgot-
Perhaps, an Antique trinket-
In vanished fashions set!

And then to lay them quiet back-
And go about its care-
As if the little Ebon Box
Were none of our affair!